In The Garden
by poohblaze
Summary: Mark plants a rose bush.


Author's Notes: Well, apparently I can't write action. Mark does use a shovel, how's that? I did say I was working on a longer piece and this is certainly, um, longer. Bring a sandwich. Huge, enormous bundles of gratitude go to L.M. Lewis and Owlcroft who tag team beta'ed this puppy. Or, as Owl would put it, tag-team edited this piece. Any remaining errors are due solely to my being an idiot.

Standard disclaimers. These guys aren't mine and I'm getting no money for this. It's all for fun.

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Out on the lawn I lie in bed,  
Vega conspicuous overhead  
In the windless nights of June,  
As congregated leaves complete  
Their day's activity; my feet  
Point to the rising moon.

Lucky, this point in time and space  
Is chosen as my working-place,  
Where the sexy airs of summer,  
The bathing hours and the bare arms,  
The leisured drives through a land of farms  
Are good to a newcomer.

A Summer Night - W.H. Auden, 1933.

In the Garden

Mark McCormick drew the hoe back and then slammed it down into the earth for another hit. It was high summer, the yellow and brown season, and even here on the well-watered grounds of Gulls' Way, the ground was hard and dry. Mark turned his head to wipe his forehead on his shoulder. His t-shirt was already wet with sweat. He looked up and thought about taking a break. Hardcastle stood nearby, hands on his hips surveying the hole Mark was working on. Supervising. Mark paused for a moment to observe the Judge's complete lack of helpfulness. "What's the word," he said thoughtfully, "that isn't symptomatic?"

Hardcastle grunted at him, "What?"

"Not symptomatic. It's on the tip of my tongue. Symbolic, that's it. This is symbolic."

Hardcastle shook his head at him. "They used to make ex-cons hardier. Chain gangs. Hour after hour working in the hot sun. With _chains_. They never cracked. You, on the other hand, can't dig a hole for half an hour without getting goofy."

Mark just nodded his head agreeably and ignored him. "Symbolic. Me doing all the hard work and you watching. Our whole relationship, right here."

"Just keep digging, Dr. Freud. You're the one who wanted some rose bushes by the gatehouse."

Mark exhaled and picked up the hoe again. He really wasn't in a position to complain, at least not too much. He was the one who wanted to plant a rose bush up against the gatehouse wall. Hardcastle had been nice enough not to question him about it. Mark couldn't quite explain why he wanted to plant another rose bush when Gulls' Way already had about sixty million of them. But then this one would be his. Something he had given the place. Mark struck at the hard earth again. He was alternating between the hoe and a shovel and had a pretty good sized hole already. He poked at the hole and then suddenly belted out, "Breaking rocks in the hot sun–"

"Shut up, McCormick."

Mark grinned and prepared to respond vocally to that command. He drew the hoe back again and then froze.

"Now what?" Hardcastle asked. "Tea time?"

Mark lowered the hoe and stared into the hole. He swallowed once. "Judge?"

"What?" Hardcastle said impatiently.

"There's somebody in there."

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Lieutenant Frank Harper stared into the hole. Of all the places to find a body. A team of crime scene technicians were slowly uncovering Mark's unexpected roommate. The remains were thoroughly skeletonized. Their John Doe had been dumped headfirst into the ground. The body was folded up a bit as if the hole had been dug in haste. The head was buried fairly deeply and the feet angled up towards the surface. Mark had almost put a hoe through an ankle bone. Frank glanced over at Mark who was looking partly appalled and partly fascinated. Next to him, Milt just looked glum. "Tell me again," Frank asked. "Why you were digging here?"

Mark shrugged. "Planting a rose bush."

"More roses?"

Mark scowled at him. "Hey, I like roses, okay?"

"Okay, okay," Frank said soothingly.

"I just know this is going to end up in a file somewhere," Mark grumbled. "Enjoys roses and strawberry daiquiris."

"Don't forget long walks on the beach."

"Shut up, Frank."

Frank grinned and then sobered as he turned to Hardcastle. "Milt, any ideas?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "Can't imagine. Must be pretty old though. Skeleton."

One of the technicians working in the hole turned his head at this comment and then looked significantly over at Frank. Frank lifted his chin in acknowledgment. "You got something, Lane?"

The man nodded and flicked his eyes towards Milt and Mark.

"They're okay," Frank said.

Lane stepped out of the hole and brushed off his pants. "We'll know more once the M.E.'s done his job, but I can tell you two things right now."

Frank nodded.

"Well, okay, first of all your John Doe is a Jane Doe."

"A woman?" Mark said, startled.

The technician gave him a quick glance. "Yeah, you can tell by the pelvis." He turned his attention back to Frank. "Second thing is that the head and shoulders are angled underneath the foundation. So most likely they built the structure over the body."

Frank recoiled slightly. "Huh," he looked back over to Milt. "That help any?"

The judge simply looked bewildered. "I don't know, Frank. Probably before my time."

Mark cocked his head to assess his current home. "How old is the gatehouse anyway?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Ah, let's see. It was a wedding present from Nancy's parents. That makes it, what, almost forty years old. Been renovated a little, but nothing with the foundation."

"The gatehouse was a wedding gift?" Mark asked in surprise.

"Well, yeah. Nancy's parents were still living in the main house. They built this for us."

Mark stared at him. "You lived in the gatehouse?"

"Sure I lived in the gatehouse," Hardcastle replied a bit caustically. "What, did you think you were the original tenant?"

"Well, no. It's just weird. Like I suddenly got a roommate."

"It was forty years ago, McCormick. You weren't even born yet."

"Yeah," Mark said slowly, then he suddenly smiled. "Hey, forty years. What do you know, for once I have an alibi."

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Jane Doe was painstakingly removed and carted off. The crime scene guys had found bits of clothing nearby that they had bagged and removed as well. Mark took a look at the skeleton before they took her away. He had to keep reminding himself that this was a human being. It looked just like one of those skeletons they had in some anatomy class. Not that he'd ever been in an anatomy class, but he'd seen movies.

Hardcastle had stomped around and done that supervising thing that he did so well. He seemed to be taking this as some sort of personal insult. Mark thought he should be the one to be freaked out. He had been practically sleeping on top of the thing for the past seven months.

Mark watched the last of the technicians leave and then wandered over to Hardcastle and Frank. They had abandoned the crime scene and were huddled at a table by the pool. Mark looked at his watch and wondered if Frank would be staying for dinner. So far this didn't have the earmarks of an urgent, fast-breaking case. Frank's natural manner was generally about as lively as cold molasses. Maybe a case like this would be in line with Frank's natural rhythms. Nice and low key. Like a crossword puzzle on Sunday morning.

Hardcastle looked up as Mark approached. "They gone?"

"Yeah." Mark hooked a chair with his foot, pulled it towards him and sat. "It was pretty interesting. Like archeology."

"Archeology," the judge muttered.

Frank's hands were clasped before him, resting on the table. He looked up from them and said musingly, "You know, that's a thought. We know the bones are at least forty years old, but who's to say they aren't older? I mean, they could be ancient."

Mark frowned. "I don't know. They didn't look _that_ old. And they found some denim. I don't think cavemen wore jeans."

Frank sighed and leaned back in his chair. "You know, we don't even know if there's been a crime here."

Hardcastle snorted. "Someone dies of natural causes, they don't normally get upended into a hole in the garden."

"Doesn't necessarily mean a murder," Frank argued.

"Hey, Frank," Mark asked, "will they be able to tell how she died? I mean, it's just bones."

Frank shook his head. "I don't know. Sometimes they can tell from just bones. Like if someone was shot in the head or something like that. But sometimes not."

Mark nodded. That made sense. "That guy, what was it, Lane? He could tell right away that it was a woman's bones." Mark shook his head. "That was, I don't know, impressive."

Hardcastle looked up and gave him a slightly surprised look. Mark didn't notice.

Frank watched them both for a moment and then said easily, "Hopefully I'll know more when the M.E.'s report comes in."

"How long will that take?" Hardcastle asked.

Frank shrugged and stared down at his hands again. "Well, it's not like it's going to be a priority, you know?" He looked up to see two pairs of blue eyes staring at him. He sighed. "On the other hand, it's not quite your every day job. The M.E. might be curious."

"Curious," Hardcastle repeated and the corner of his mouth tugged upwards.

"Yeah," Frank said. "And I might be persuaded to push him along."

"Persuaded?" Mark asked.

Frank grinned at the two of them. Unidentical twins. "Hmm. Persuaded," he said calculatingly.

Mark smiled back at him. "Every man has his price."

Frank darted his eyes to the grill. "My price involves red meat. Lots of red meat."

Mark rose to his feet. "That is the one thing we have here at Casa De Heart Attack. Let your arteries be on your head."

Frank shared a glance with the Judge, "On my head?"

Hardcastle smiled as he watched Mark retreat, "Don't even ask."

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Frank left soon after being plied with about seventeen pounds of beef. That was Mark's estimation and he suspected it was conservative. He stood at the window and watched Frank's tail lights disappear down the driveway.

"Doesn't Claudia feed him?"

Hardcastle moved to an armchair. "Oh yeah. It's just that sometimes she has some weird ideas about food. Woman's got a sweet tooth that won't quit."

Mark chuckled. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Ever have a marshmallow cream sandwich?"

Mark looked at him in horror. "You're kidding."

"Why do you think Frank makes his own lunch?"

Mark shuddered. "We need to have him over more often."

Hardcastle smiled at Mark's statement. Six months ago, who would have thought something like that would have come out of the kid's mouth?

Mark flopped down onto the sofa and looked expectantly over at Hardcastle. "So?"

Hardcastle raised an eyebrow. "So what?"

"Oh, come on. You're not going to just sit around here and wait for Frank. What are we going to do?"

Hardcastle sighed and settled back in his chair. Sometimes it was unnerving to be known so well. "I gotta say, I'm a little stumped here. This, kiddo, is what is known as a cold case."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, forty years."

"At least that." Hardcastle chewed his lower lip and then suddenly clapped his hands down on his thighs. "Okay," he said decisively, "first thing we need to do is figure out who she was."

"Brilliant," Mark said sarcastically. "And how do we do that, Kreskin?"

Hardcastle hesitated. "Yeah, that's the hard part." He thought for a moment. "Well, if we don't have physical evidence then we need a witness."

"A witness? Who? Methuselah?"

Hardcastle glared at him. "Forty years isn't _that_ long, McCormick."

"I wasn't even born," Mark mused. "Did they even have T.V.? Radio? Printing press?"

Hardcastle tapped a finger on the chair arm. "Would you pay attention? We gotta talk to someone who was around here when this might have happened."

Mark said nothing, a horrible thought beginning to dawn on him. Hardcastle nodded to himself. "Yup. That's what we gotta do."

Mark looked at him like he had just proposed a fun trip to the dentist. "You're going to invite her here, aren't you?"

"Yup." Hardcastle rose from the chair and headed towards the den. "Get out the vacuum, kiddo."

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Mark braced himself as D.D. Drylinger entered the main house. Hardcastle greeted her at the door, a big fake smile on his face. "D.D.," Hardcastle began, only to be cut off instantly.

"Milt, I can _not_ believe it. I saw it on TV last night. Where was it? They didn't say on the news." D.D. absently offered him her hand which Hardcastle gripped quickly and then released

Mark looked over at Hardcastle who still had that fixed smile on his face. Of course they didn't say where the body was on the news because Hardcase had refused to allow any news crews through the gates. "Damn vultures." Mark had found himself agreeing with the sentiment. The gatehouse wasn't really his, but it sort of was. He didn't really want any cameras poking around it.

"It was right by the gatehouse," Mark answered her. D.D. turned towards him as if she hadn't quite realized he was there.

"Oh, Mark," she stepped towards him and patted his arm. "Was it quite awful?"

Mark hesitated and looked at Hardcastle, but the judge simply stared back, apparently punting the conversation. "No," he said, "it was mostly just strange. I mean, I've dug up rocks, roots, and old pipe, but I gotta say, this was a first."

D.D. stared up at him. "Oh dear," she looked around the entryway like she half expected corpses to start dropping from the walls. Then she straightened and turned back to the judge. "Will you show me?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Yeah," he said reflectively, "you should probably see it."

Mark lingered behind the judge and D.D. as they headed across the lawn towards the gatehouse. The yellow police scene tape was clearly visible from the garage. It looked so out of place among the shrubs surrounding the gatehouse. He wondered how long it would have to stay up. He wanted the place to look like it always had. It had felt funny coming back here last night to go to bed. In fact, he had delayed it as much as he could. The judge had eventually gone up to bed without either chasing him out or telling him to stay. Mark had finally gone to the gatehouse because he felt it would be a bit cowardly not to. Not that he was afraid to stay there. It was just that the place felt . . . odd. It had secrets that he didn't know about. It had a whole past that didn't involve him.

The hole hadn't been filled in yet. Mark didn't know if he was supposed to do that or if the police would do it. He could just picture Frank Harper or Mike Delaney with a shovel. If he played his cards right maybe he could get them to do a little weeding while they were at it.

D.D. surveyed the area with her hands folded across her chest and a slight frown on her face. "A skeleton?"

"Yeah," the judge answered. "They said it was a woman. Part of it was under the gatehouse so we're thinking she was buried before the gatehouse went up."

D.D. gave him a puzzled look. "So long ago?" She thought for a moment. "When were you married Milt? '44, '45?"

"1945."

D.D. nodded reflectively. "That's right. I'd just started high school." She gave Mark a light smile. "I got to be a bridesmaid."

Mark nodded briefly back. "We were kind of hoping that maybe you might remember something that could help us figure out who she was."

The judge shot him a quick, grateful look for putting them back on track and added. "I know you were pretty young, but anything you can remember about those days would help."

D.D. looked slightly overwhelmed and then thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose I can try." She looked around her and then nodded at the door of the gatehouse. "May we go inside? It's getting rather warm out here."

The judge looked at Mark and Mark stared blankly back until he realized that the judge was waiting for him to grant permission. He blinked and stammered, "Uh, yeah, sure." He turned and headed towards the door. "Um, walk this way, okay?"

It was definitely cooler in the gatehouse. It was also a heck of a lot messier. It was just his luck, Mark thought. He'd spent yesterday afternoon and this morning cleaning the main house within an inch of its life and they wind up in the gatehouse. He winced as D.D. removed a t-shirt from the couch before sitting down. She picked it up between her thumb and middle finger and held it out like it was radioactive. He shrugged helplessly at the judge who gave him a quick wink back. Well, they'd tried.

Mark watched as D.D. settled down somewhat gingerly on the couch. "Um, would you like something to drink?"

She smiled up at him. Stiff upper lip and all that. "No, thank you Mark. I'm fine."

Mark sank down in relief on the other end of the couch. He wasn't sure if he had any clean glasses.

Hardcastle sat in one of the arm chairs. He leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. Somewhat to Mark's surprise, he started by reminiscing. "First time I came to this place was in fall of '44. Nancy invited a whole bunch of folks out for a pool party. I remember some of them, but not all. Some I just saw that one time."

D.D. leaned back into the corner of the couch. She nodded thoughtfully. "I remember those parties. Dad loved to entertain. Nancy was like that, too. A natural hostess. And you know what Nancy was like. She collected people."

The judge nodded, staring down at his hands. "I was one of them."

"Yes, you were." Something about the calm, matter-of-fact way that D.D. said that made Mark look at her. She was looking at the judge affectionately.

Hardcastle continued. "We need somewhere to start. Do you remember any names?"

D.D. blew out her breath. "Surely the police are looking into this?"

Hardcastle lifted his eyes to look at her. "Well sure, but it's not exactly a high priority, you know? I'd kind of like to find out what happened here."

"I suppose," D.D. said. She rubbed a finger on the couch cushion, almost as if she was checking it for dust. "Milt," she said suddenly, "does it really matter? All of this is so old."

Hardcastle sat up in surprise. "Of course it matters. There's no statute of limitations on murder."

"_Murder_?"

Hardcastle held out his hand, palm towards D.D. "Okay, sorry, I'm jumping the gun there. I don't know that she was killed. But you gotta admit, burying her in the backyard is a little suspicious."

D.D. bit her lip and nodded slowly. "That's true enough." She rubbed the cushion again. "It's just so strange, Milt. You remember what it was like when mother and dad were alive. Everything was very . . . ordered."

The judge leaned forward again. "I suppose so. Although I know for a fact that your folks weren't aware of everything the two of you were up to."

D.D. looked away for a moment. When she looked back there was an impish expression on her face. "True enough," she said. Then she shook her head reflectively and tipped her chin back to stare at the ceiling. "The parties. Let me see. Dad and mother had their parties, of course. All of their friends must surely be dead by now so I'm not sure what good those names would do you."

"Let's start with you and Nancy," the judge answered. "Who hung around with you two?"

Mark sat quietly, trying not to call attention to himself. The judge never talked about his family. There were times when he was desperately curious about them. But he would never ask about them.

D.D. sighed. She suddenly looked at Mark and explained, "I was ten years younger than Nancy. You'd think we'd have different friends. But I was such a little pest. I wanted to be around the big kids." She faced the judge again. "You knew some of Nancy's friends. Donna Conanger. Last I heard she was in Chicago. Mimi Reynolds. I have no idea what happened to her. Betty Preminger. Now she's still around. Married Franklin Coyne. I see them from time to time."

The judge was simply nodding as she listed names. Mark wondered if he should be taking notes. Maybe there was some central registry for former debutantes.

D.D.'s eyes clouded in an attempt to remember. "Donna, Mimi, Betty. Those were the big three. My fellow bridesmaids. Aside from them, oh dear, people came and went. Missy Freeman. Dottie Martin. Um, there was a Grace somebody, I remember. All the boys were ga-ga over her."

"What about the guys?" Mark asked.

D.D. frowned. "Didn't you say it was a woman?"

Mark shrugged and the judge answered. "It helps to be complete."

"Hmm. I suppose. All right, the boys. Well, you Milt, although that was later. Missy's brother, Jack, Frank Coyne, Jeff Creed, oh Rick Gault, you know him."

Mark straightened. "_Judge_ Gault?" He looked over at Hardcastle who was nodding reflectively.

"Yeah, he was around," Hardcastle confirmed.

Mark sat back. "Huh."

"Some of these people I haven't thought about in ages," D.D. continued.

"What about your friends?" Mark asked.

D.D. looked at him and Mark was surprised to see a slight blush on her face. "Well, I was never as . . . social as Nancy." She ducked her head. "As I said, I could be a bit of a pest."

"Nah," the judge said.

"Oh, I know I was. The tag-along. Most of Nancy's friends were quite nice about it. But some. . ." She paused and then asked Hardcastle, "do you know why I'm called D.D.?"

"It's your initials," the judge said, "Donna Deirdre."

Mark's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He hadn't known her real name was Donna.

"Yes, they are my initials. But, well, Mimi gave me the nickname." She shook her head reflectively, "She said we already had a Donna." Mark winced. Something about the way she said it made him picture D.D. as the last kid chosen on the playground

The judge fidgeted quietly.

D.D. gave him a wry smile and then stood up. "This could take all day. I'll tell you what. Why don't I go home and make a list of who I can remember. Would that help?"

Hardcastle stood too. "That would help a lot."

"All right." She smiled at the judge and then asked, "Could you call me a cab?"

Mark stood and shook his head. "I knew I didn't hear your car."

"In for brake work, I'm afraid."

"Aw, you should have brought it here. I can do brakes."

D.D. laughed lightly. "You shouldn't tell me things like that, Mark. I've been known to take advantage."

"Hey, any sister-in-law of the judge's," Mark said blithely. "Come on, I'll run you home."

D.D.'s eyes widened. "In that car?"

Mark grinned. "Sure."

She looked uncertainly at Hardcastle. "Ah, go ahead, kid loves to show it off to new people."

"Very well then," she said cautiously. "But the speed limit, all right?"

"Cross my heart."

"Oh dear, _please_ don't finish that statement."

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D.D. sat rather stiffly next to Mark in the Coyote. It had taken some maneuvering to actually get her in the car. Once inside it seemed like she hardly dared move. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Probably she was afraid she'd accidentally hit the ejector seat button.

"I really won't crash." Mark said.

D.D. gave him a slightly tense smile. "I know, Mark. I suspect I'm just not a sports car person." She took a deep breath and Mark suspected some yoga classes in her immediate past.

"You drive a Lincoln, right?"

"That's right. My husband always said, 'buy American.'"

Mark chuckled. "Man, all of Hardcastle's relatives seem to have really firm opinions on cars."

D.D. turned her head towards him. "Really? But then I don't suppose I'm really one of Milt's relatives. Unless you count by marriage."

Mark glanced quickly at her. "Well, I count by marriage." Then he paused and added, "He does too."

D.D. just nodded, a remote look on her face. She turned her head again to stare out the window. Mark bit back a sigh. He didn't know the woman very well at all, but he usually found it a lot easier to talk to people. D.D. was tough. She was nice enough, but she had an air of old money about her. It gave her poise and a certain reserve that was difficult to penetrate. She reminded Mark a little of Katharine Hepburn. If Katharine Hepburn had an obsessive compulsive disorder.

Mark was casting about for something to say when D.D. surprised him by breaking the silence. "It's funny that it would come down to Milt and me."

She sounded so reflective that Mark wasn't sure the comment was aimed at him. He spoke anyway. "How do you mean?"

D.D. blinked and straightened. "Oh, I just mean out of all the people running around Gulls' Way. It's funny that the only two left would be him and me."

Mark frowned. "Those others that you mentioned, they're still around right? I mean," he added hastily, "still alive."

D.D. smiled. "We're not that old Mark," she teased gently. "I just mean. . . ." She sighed, "I guess I don't know what I mean. The others I don't see any more. However much Milt and I may clash, I can always pick up the phone and call him."

"See," Mark said, "you're family."

D.D. nodded lightly. "I suppose so." Then she lapsed into silence again.

Mark chewed the inside of his cheek and threw her a sidelong glance. She seemed lost in thought. "D.D.," he said hesitantly, "what did you mean that it was funny that it was the judge and you left? Didn't you get along?"

D.D. looked startled. "Oh, well, he was Nancy's friend so we didn't have too much to do with one another. There were others I was closer to. Or thought I was anyway. We were always polite to each other and I thought well of him. I . . . approved of the marriage."

Mark took note of the hesitation. "Not everyone did?"

D.D. looked at him. "Are you fishing for stories?"

Mark frowned in consternation. "Ah, I'm sorry. I know it's none of my business. I'm just kind of curious, you know? And I don't want to ask him."

D.D. stared at him for a moment and then gave him a gentle smile. Mark felt her relax for the first time. "I don't blame you," she said. "And I do see how difficult it would be to ask him. It's still very hard for him to talk about Nancy."

"Isn't it for you?" Mark asked and then could have bitten his tongue.

But D.D. simply tilted her head and answered thoughtfully. "She was my sister, so of course I loved her. There was a big age difference though, so we had that between us. I . . . admired her a great deal. I think Mother thought she was a bit wild. She would say anything to anyone. But Dad loved that. I didn't have Nancy's nerve. But I would have loved to have been like her."

"She seemed to have a lot of friends." To his own ears, this sounded like more fishing to Mark, but he was genuinely curious about her.

"She did. From all over. A lot of people think that the parties she threw were like something out of F. Scott Fitzgerald. You know, rich people standing around talking about tennis and polo or what have you. They weren't like that at all. Everybody came. Children we grew up with, yes, but also people she just took a fancy to. It didn't matter what they did or where they came from."

"Like Hardcastle."

D.D. smiled widely. "Do you want that story? I don't mind. He was one of the people she decided she liked. He was still a police officer at the time. We knew he had been in the service so he was quite the romantic figure. Mimi tried to latch on to him at the beginning. Grace too."

Mark thought back to their earlier conversation. Mimi who nicknamed D.D. Grace who everyone was ga-ga over. "And your sister?"

"Oh, she was far more subtle. It took me a while to realize that she'd made her choice." She shook her head. "It surprised a lot of people."

Mark frowned. "Why?"

D.D. shrugged. "Oh, it all sounds so horribly old-fashioned and, well, snobbish. But I think people expected her to do a little better. It was thought that she married beneath her." Mark stiffened and D.D. held up a hand. "I never thought that. I thought it was wonderful. Like something out of a storybook. Mother and Dad. . . ." she paused and thought for a moment. "They came around very quickly. But at first I think they might have thought he was a bit of a climber. We'd run into them before. And Nancy was very precious to them."

"A climber?"

"A social climber. You could usually pick them out fairly easily."

"He's not like that," Mark said firmly.

D.D. looked at him in surprise. "I know."

"Okay, okay," Mark said sheepishly, a little embarrassed at his own vehemence. "I get it though. Not everyone approved."

"No. Though it wasn't any big dramatic situation. It's just that, especially after the engagement, there was a certain . . . texture to their conversations with him."

Mark frowned to himself. He understood what she was getting at. It was something that happened to him when people found out he had done time. They were seldom out and out rude, at least not to his face, but the tone of the conversation changed. He got watched. It had happened again and again, to the point when there were times when he just didn't feel up to meeting new people. The judge would never let him off the hook though. His presence was always required whenever the judge had people over. He had initially thought that the judge just wanted him to meet shining examples of the community. But it was possible that Hardcastle did it so that Mark could build up some kind of resistance. Maybe that was how Hardcastle had handled his own induction.

Mark realized that D.D. was waiting for him to reply. "You must have been pretty observant. To pick up on that, I mean."

D.D. shrugged. "Well, I told you I was a tag-along. I saw a lot of things. I just haven't thought of any of this in so many years."

"Did stuff like your sister and Hardcastle happen a lot? Hook-up's I mean."

D.D. laughed. "'Hook-up's,' what a word. It wasn't Peyton Place. The only other notable pairing was Betty Preminger and Frank Coyne. That was later though. Mostly it was just a group of people who enjoyed each other's company. Not to say there weren't little crushes going back and forth." She leaned towards him. "Shall I tell you an awful secret?"

She looked at him with a wicked light in her eyes and Mark grinned at her. "Do tell. Later we'll do each other's nails."

D.D. laughed. "Brace yourself. I used to have a terrible crush on Rick Gault."

Mark gave her an appalled look. "All right, that's it. Get out of my car."

D.D. collapsed laughing back into her seat. "Don't worry, it lasted all of fifteen minutes."

"That's fifteen minutes too long."

Still chuckling, D.D. replied, "It lasted just until I got my first look at Frank Coyne. Now there was a dish."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Am I going to have to put up with girl-talk for the rest of the drive?"

D.D. smirked and said in a sing-song voice, "He had golden brown hair and big green eyes."

"That's it. I'm dropping you off at the corner."

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It was dark when Mark returned to Gulls Way. A day and a half since they had found the skeleton. And at least forty years and a day and a half since the woman died. Time was a-wasting.

Mark went right to the main house, still feeling a little bit funny about the gatehouse. He called out, "I'm back," as he entered.

"In the den."

Mark found Hardcastle seated at his desk; an opened photo album was spread out before him on the desk. He grunted as Mark entered but, a little to Mark's surprise, didn't attempt to close the album. Generally Hardcastle kept his past to himself and Mark didn't push it. There were too many land mines there. Of course they generally didn't find bodies in the garden.

Taking Hardcastle's passivity as tacit permission, Mark looked at the exposed pages of the album. Not too much to his surprise, it was an old group picture. For a moment, he didn't recognize the location. Then he realized it was taken on the side lawn, facing towards where the gatehouse would one day be. There were about a dozen people in the photo, all young. He touched a finger to one of them. "That's you

"1944. I think that was when this was taken."

Mark leaned closer. "That's your wife." He gently touched the image of a dark-haired woman. She was wearing a pair of loose-legged trousers, a light shirt, and a wide smile as if she had been caught in mid-laugh. A rose was playfully stuck in her hair. She wasn't standing anywhere near the judge. Nancy was subtle. Mark scanned the photo and pointed again, "D.D." D.D. was easy to spot. Noticeably younger than the others, wearing light shorts and sandals. Her chin was tucked in as she peered up at the camera. She stood near another person, woman or girl it was hard to tell. She was shorter than most of the others and had high, movie-star cheekbones and light eyes. Mark scanned the rest of the photo and then looked at the judge. "Are the others here? Bitsy, Muffy, Coco, and Scooter?"

The judge snorted. "Look closer, wise guy. You know one of them."

Mark raised an eyebrow and pulled the album towards him. He looked for an ill-tempered, narrow-minded curmudgeon. Aside from Hardcase. He shook his head. "I don't see him."

Hardcastle pulled the album back and stabbed a finger at it. "Rick Gault."

Mark looked. A smiling, muscular looking young man with abundant dark hair. "Geez, what the hell happened to him?"

"Nothing happened to him, McCormick, he got old."

"Yeah. And fat. And bald. And short."

"He doesn't look that bad."

"Maybe from your side of the bench."

Hardcastle cocked his head and stared at the picture. "I guess he's maybe _weathered_ a bit."

"Yeah, like a typhoon."

Hardcastle scowled. "I don't look that different, do I?"

Mark looked down at the picture and then back at the judge. He reached out to grasp the judge's chin and posed his head. Then he stared critically at him.

"Nah," he said finally, "you look pretty much the same." Hardcastle looked pleased. "After all," Mark added, "once a donkey always a donkey."

Hardcastle aimed a swat at him and managed to miss entirely as Mark danced backwards. "Would you be serious?"

"I am serious. You're a donkey."

Hardcastle glared at him but Mark could tell that it was only for form's sake. Mark moved back closer and sat on the edge of the desk. He looked at the photo again. "Your wife was really pretty."

"Yeah," Hardcastle said fondly. "Not a knockout or anything but she had something. She was solid, you know?"

Mark just nodded. He didn't really know. After a moment he asked, "Can you name the others?"

"I think so," Hardcastle said. "D.D. jarred some stuff loose in my head." He pointed to a tall, sturdy-looking woman "That's Donna Conanger."

"I'd hate to run into her in a dark alley."

"Nah. I liked her." He paused and added thoughtfully, "She liked me."

Mark gave him a speculative look, "You mean _like_ like?"

"What are you, twelve? Not that way. I just mean we liked each other. She was nice to me."

Mark frowned again and said with studied casualness, "I bet they all liked you."

Hardcastle huffed. "Not hardly, kiddo." He glanced at Mark, a quirk on his lips. "Might surprise you to know that not everybody loves me."

"What's not to love?" Mark said lightly. It didn't come out as sarcastically as he'd intended. He hastily pointed to another figure and asked, "Who's this?"

Hardcastle stared at him for a moment and then looked back at the photo. "Betty Preminger."

"Oh, she's the one who married dishy Frank Coyne."

"Dishy? You've been talking to D.D."

"D.D. has hidden depths."

Hardcastle just sniffed and pointed to a figure of a man standing almost in the center of the photo. He was tall and slender. Mark figured he had golden brown hair and green eyes. "Frank Coyne?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Mark stared critically at the figure. "Okay, I guess he is kind of dishy."

Hardcastle stared at him.

Mark grinned at him. "And I mean that in a totally manly way."

"That's good, 'cause he's taken."

"So all the girls were ga-ga over him." Mark looked at Betty's image. Good for you, kid. "Hey," he said, "which one was Grace?"

"Grace . . ." Hardcastle said thoughtfully.

"You know, Grace Ga-Ga, the female Frank Coyne."

"Yeah." Hardcastle tentatively pointed to the small woman standing next to D.D. "I'm pretty sure that's her. I hardly knew her. She didn't stay around long."

Mark looked more intently at the figure. It was hard to judge her beauty from the photo but her features were certainly striking. He shook his head. "I can't tell. Was she really all that gorgeous?"

Hardcastle closed his eyes in thought for a moment and then answered. "I don't remember much. I didn't pay much attention to her. She did have a hell of a face, though. If she's the one I'm thinking of. Thing I most remember is really blue eyes, you know? Like Elizabeth Taylor or something."

Mark looked at her again, but it was too hard to tell. He straightened up and sighed. "Judge, where are we going with this? It'll take forever to track down these people. We don't even know if the skeleton we found has anything to do with these people."

"I know, I know. But look, we know something wasn't kosher with that body. And we know it was covered by part of the gatehouse. It couldn't have been there too long before the gatehouse went up or someone would have found it. Nancy's mother was always messing with the grounds. She would have found it. And," Hardcastle added firmly, laying down his trump card, "we got nowhere else to start."

Mark considered. He drummed his heels against the side of the desk, stopping only when Hardcastle whacked his thigh. "Sorry. Just thinking. I guess you're right but I'd kind of like to know more about the mystery woman before we go breaking down doors."

The judge nodded. "Frank."

"Been a day and a half. Think he's got anything?"

Hardcastle rubbed his chin. "How much steak did he eat last night?"

"More than you and me combined."

"Round or porterhouse?"

"Round."

"Hmm. We'll wait 'till morning then."

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Frank Harper was reading an investigation report when he heard the sharp, perfunctory knock on the door. He looked up at the clock, not quite 8:30. He was getting off easy. "Come in, Milt."

The door opened to reveal a slightly miffed Milton C. Hardcastle. Mark was peering over his shoulder. "Am I that predictable?" Milt asked.

"Not really. I expected you yesterday."

Mark piped up, "You got something?"

Frank bit back a smile. For an ex-con he did a damn good impression of an eager rookie. Frank answered with excessive sincerity. "Why, I was just on my way down to the M.E.'s when you knocked. Lucky, huh?"

Mark smiled ruefully and stabbed a finger at Hardcastle. "Hey, he wanted to come yesterday."

"I did not."

"Sure you did."

"I did not."

Frank stood and pulled on his coat. "Don't make me stop this car."

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The M.E.'s office wasn't actually housed in the LAPD headquarters. They drove the few short blocks. Frank declined to ride with them, citing the Coyote's complete lack of a back seat. He met them at the entrance to the building. Mark had never been there before. "They don't actually have bodies lying in file cabinets, do they?"

"Relax, Mark," Frank said. "This is just a skeleton remember? You're the one who dug it up."

Hardcastle clapped Mark on the shoulder. "Relax kiddo, your skeleton ain't gonna hurt you."

"_My_ skeleton," Mark grumbled and followed them in.

Frank led them expertly through a labyrinth of hallways, occasionally pausing to nod hello to someone in a white coat. He finally stopped at an office door, rapped twice and let himself in. Hardcastle and Mark followed.

A tiny gray-haired woman was bent over a lab table. Thankfully, there were no dead bodies to be seen. Frank stepped forward and greeted her, "Sonia."

She looked up from a pile of notebooks; glasses were perched on the end of her nose. "I knew it. Frank Harper. Pushiest man on the force."

Mark gawked at Frank. Hardcastle chuckled. "Didn't know you had in you, Frank."

The woman eyed Hardcastle. "And who might you be?"

The judge stepped forward and held out a hand. "Milt Hardcastle."

"Pushiest man outside the force," Mark helpfully supplied.

Hardcastle shook her hand. "The one with the lip is Mark McCormick."

"Sonia Nucci, Assistant M.E. I've heard of you. The Lone Ranger, right?"

"Uh."

"That's him," Frank said smugly. "He and Tonto here are the ones who brought you that skeleton."

Her eyes lit up. "Ah. Our Betty Grable."

"Betty Grable?" Hardcastle asked.

She shrugged. "We're full up on Jane Does and the timing seemed right."

"You got something?" Frank sounded slightly surprised.

She nodded and started moving papers around on the table to unearth a manila folder. "Here we go. This was a quickie. There wasn't much there to examine so we've probably got as much as we're going to get." She opened the folder and pulled out several large black and white photos. They were various shots of the skeleton. "Okay, definitely a female. Five foot three. From the growth plates I'd put her between eighteen and twenty-one."

Mark shot a look at the judge. He was nodding thoughtfully.

Dr. Nucci leaned towards Frank. "Here's the part you'll like. We might have a cause of death."

"You're kidding."

She nodded. "We're just that good." She rifled through the photos and pulled out one of the skull. "See the temple? The skull is cracked. I can't swear it wasn't post mortem, but the rest of the skeleton is intact so it seems unlikely."

All three men leaned forward to examine the skull. Frank hovered a finger over the spot that Dr. Nucci had indicated. "That's a bit odd," he said.

"What?" Mark asked curiously.

"I've seen my share of head traumas. Usually they look like, well, imagine if a golf ball smashed into a skull. That kind of dent."

Mark nodded and looked back at the photo. "This is more like a slice." He looked at Dr. Nucci. "Do you have any idea what caused it?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't say with any certainty."

"The edge of something." Frank said. "Something fairly sharp."

Dr. Nucci nodded. "If you brought me something, I might be able to tell you if it was possible that it caused the blow. But to tell you positively?" She shook her head, "I don't think so."

"What did you mean about Betty Grable seeming right?" Hardcastle asked.

"Ah," Dr. Nucci shuffled through the file again and pulled out a typewritten sheet of paper. "Again, we got a little lucky. The crime scene techs retrieved some cloth from near the body. Betty here had some coins in her pocket. Two dimes and a quarter. Dates 1939, 1942, and 1937. So we're putting the date of death sometime in the early '40's." She smiled faintly, "unless she collected coins or something."

"That fits," Mark murmured. He stared down at the photo of the skull. "What about the teeth? Can you identify her that way? Like on T.V."

Dr. Nucci nodded. "I could if I had any dental records."

Mark blushed. "Oh, right."

"It was a good thought," Frank said. "Who knows? We may get lucky and find some records." He turned to Dr. Nucci. "You did better than I'd hoped."

Hardcastle nodded in agreement. "Appreciate you working so fast."

"Well, this one was different. Breaks up the monotony of the OD's." She closed the file and asked Hardcastle. "This was found on your property, right?"

"Yeah," The judge replied.

"And to think I complain about aphids."

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In the parking lot, Mark trailed thoughtfully behind Hardcastle as he headed towards the Coyote. He was brought up short by a sudden tug on the back of his jacket. He turned around and Frank let go of him. "Conference," Frank said.

"Judge."

Hardcastle turned at Mark's call and then stumped back to the two of them.

"You got an idea who that girl was." Frank stated.

Hardcastle exhaled and stared down at the pavement. "Maybe," he said at last.

"We don't know for sure or anything," Mark added. "It's just that we might have an idea."

"I'll take an idea."

Hardcastle nodded. "Yeah, yeah, okay." He squinted up at the sun. "Let's go back home though. We're gonna melt out here."

"You know, Milt, it's not that I object to hanging around in your living room, but I am supposed to be working."

Mark summoned a smile. "What, sitting around the pool not good for your image?"

"Something like that."

"You can clean the gutters if it will make you feel better."

Hardcastle cut in before weeding and hedge trimming could be mentioned, "It's perfectly legitimate. I've got a photo album to show you."

Frank considered. "In that case, lead on."

Mark gave the judge a mock glare as they headed for the Coyote. "Nice going, Hardcase, I was working on something here."

Hardcastle followed him and Frank overheard the remainder of the argument. "No trying to scam your way out of doing chores."

"Scam is an ugly word. I prefer to say that I'm soliciting volunteers."

"Not a chance. The gutters are part of your rehabilitation."

"Rehabilitation. How long before I'm rehabilitated?"

"I'll let you know."

They slid into the car. Frank could just made out Mark saying, "Well, what? Is it a points system?" Then the Coyote revved up, the noise obliterating Milt's reply as well as any other sound in a three-block radius. Frank shook his head in amusement and headed towards his own car.

0000000000000000

"There." Hardcastle stabbed the page with his finger. He was once again seated at his desk in the den. Frank hovered over his shoulder. Mark sat in a chair facing him across the desk, his hands steepled under his nose.

"So who is she?" Frank asked.

"All I can remember is a first name, Grace."

Frank stared dubiously at the photo. "Well, she's probably about the right height, but it's awfully slim."

"I'm not saying it's her, just that it could be." The judge shrugged. "It's a place to start."

Frank sighed and straightened. He paced slowly towards the window. Mark's eyes followed him. Mark dropped his hand down to the armrests of the chair. "You can't help, can you?" Mark said quietly.

Frank's back was to them. He stopped walking and turned his head partially towards Mark. "Not much." He turned and spoke to Hardcastle. "I'm sorry, Milt, but I can't justify it. I've got kids killing each other every day out there. I can't spend time on a forty-year-old case that I don't even know was a murder. I can't do it."

Mark half expected the judge to explode with some speech about justice having no time limits or something, but Hardcastle surprised him by simply nodding glumly. "Yeah, I kind of figured." The judge tapped the photo again. "You understand that I can't let it go, right? This is my home. And these people," he trailed off as he glanced back down at the photo. "They were friends."

Frank nodded. "And you understand that I'd help if I could. And that I'm still available if you do find something." He gave a modest shrug. "I like to think of myself as a friend, too."

Hardcastle smiled at him. "Yeah, you are."

"Okay." Frank hesitated and then added, "you know, if you were still a cop we wouldn't let you work this one. Too close to home."

Hardcastle snorted. "Not even close. It _is_ home."

Frank again hesitated and Mark suddenly got the feeling that he was eavesdropping on something. "I mean," Frank said. "That it could bring back some memories. It could get . . . hard."

Hardcastle looked away. "I don't live in the past, Frank."

"Yeah, I know." Frank didn't quite look at Mark. "Especially not now. Just . . . take it easy, okay?"

Hardcastle looked at him and gave a quick nod. Then he pushed up from the chair. "Come on, McCormick will fix us some lunch."

Mark tipped his head back to look at Hardcastle as he walked by him. "Don't tell me, more rehabilitation."

Hardcastle patted his shoulder. "What can I say, McCormick, you need a lot of work."

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"Tell me again why I have to be here."

"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not going to let anything happen to you?"

Hardcastle and McCormick sat in the Coyote just outside the gate of the imposing mansion. Mark tensely gripped the steering wheel. "Last time we met he threw me in prison."

Hardcastle patted his thigh. "Hey, I threw you in prison too and look how well that turned out."

"I'm crazy," Mark said to the dashboard. "I don't belong in prison. I belong in an insane asylum. A halfway house for chumps."

The intercom at the gate crackled to life. "Can I help you?" came an accented female voice.

Hardcastle leaned over Mark to reply. "Yeah, Milt Hardcastle here to see Judge Gault."

"One moment." There was a pause and then a buzz. The gate opened slowly inward.

"Must be nice to have good help," Mark said as he eased the car forward.

"Yeah, I wouldn't know."

Gault met them at the door. He shook Hardcastle's hand and after a dubious look at Mark extended his hand towards him as well. Mark shook his hand woodenly, feeling a bit like he had a gun to his head. Gault didn't look any happier about it. Hardcastle was either oblivious to the tension or pretended to be.

"Appreciate you seeing us," Hardcastle said.

Galt shrugged and somewhat reluctantly led them down two steps and into the living room. Mark trailed after the two judges wondering if he could invent some reason to go wait in the car. As if he read his mind, Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder at him, a clear message in his eyes. _Would you just relax. _Mark took a breath. He was in Hardcastle's company after all.

Gault gestured broadly at the furniture and said, "Have a seat. Can I get you anything?" Gault didn't sound too happy, but it would take more than distaste to make him forget his duties as a host. Much as Gault wasn't his favorite person, Mark did find that a bit admirable.

Hardcastle took a seat on a long sofa. Mark sat next to him, closer than he normally would.

"Nah, I'm good," Hardcastle replied. Mark just shook his head. Gault sat in an armchair facing them. He placed his arms on the armrests and tucked his chin in to observe them. Mark was reminded of the Lincoln Memorial. If Lincoln had been short and kind of bald.

"Guess you're wondering why we're here," Hardcastle began.

"Got an idea."

Mark felt Hardcastle lean back into the sofa. Neither of them said anything.

"I read the papers, Milt. I even watch the news."

Hardcastle made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Reporters," he said in the same tone of voice you'd use to say "dry rot."

Gault almost smiled. "'Remains found at home of noted jurist.' That was the Times. You photograph well."

Hardcastle grunted. "Damn vultures." He paused and looked at Gault almost grudgingly. Then he said, "I need to figure out who she was, Rick."

"Why?" Gault's reply was more challenging than curious.

Mark broke in without thinking. "Doesn't she deserve that? To be more than just . . . anonymous?"

Gault's eyes flicked to Mark and he stared at him appraisingly for a moment. Then he turned back to Hardcastle. "Is that it? Or are you looking for a mystery to solve? That Lone Ranger thing again."

Hardcastle regarded him calmly. "McCormick's right, she deserves a name. If she was killed then she deserves justice. You want to call that a Lone Ranger thing, be my guest. I call it simple decency."

Gault said nothing for a moment. His fingers clenched and unclenched. "Why would I know who she was?"

"I don't know. Maybe you don't. All I know is she was probably around when you were around."

"And you."

Hardcastle looked down and rubbed his palm on this thigh. "You knew more people."

"I knew them longer anyway."

Hardcastle looked up and said simply, "Yes." Mark felt that there was a whole other conversation going on beneath the words but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. Gault wasn't quite baiting Hardcastle but there was a taunt somewhere behind his words. Mark felt himself bristling and had to remind himself to watch his mouth. The last time he stood up to Gault it hadn't ended happily.

Gault seemed a bit disconcerted by Hardcastle's matter of fact response. He pursed his lips and his eyes once more looked quickly over to Mark and then back to Hardcastle. "I still remember most of the names," he conceded. He lifted an eyebrow. "You were one of the last ones brought in, you know?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "At that time maybe. But she never really stopped adopting people."

Once more Gault glanced at Mark. "Rubbed off, didn't it?"

Mark flushed. So now he was some kind of unwanted puppy. Hardcastle must have felt him tense because he unobtrusively pressed his knee against him and Mark bit the tip of his tongue to keep from speaking. "So you do remember names?" Hardcastle said, sticking to the point.

Gault nodded. "You, Nancy, Frank and Betty, Mimi, Debbie, uh, Jack, Steve."

"Steve Porter," Hardcastle said as if he'd just remembered.

Gault nodded.

"Haven't thought of him in a while."

Gault nodded again and seemed to exhale some tension. "Yeah, with the convertible."

Hardcastle nodded in agreement, a half smile on his face. Then he shook himself and asked, "Remember a Grace?"

Gault's eyes grew abstracted for a moment and then he nodded slowly. "Yes. Not for long comma though."

When Gault didn't continue, Hardcastle gave him a verbal nudge. "I can't really recall her."

Gault leaned forward in the chair and clasped his hands loosely between his legs. "The Jendrowski sisters. I think that was it. Polish or something. Parents came over before it got really bad." The corner of his mouth came up. "Nancy found that fascinating."

"I bet she did." And Mark could hear the wistfulness in Hardcastle's voice.

Unexpectedly, Gault raised his eyes to Hardcastle and gave him a look of compassion. "She was a good kid, Nancy."

"Yeah," Hardcastle said softly and then added briskly, "Sisters?"

"Oh yeah. Grace was the beauty and Eleanor, I guess, was supposed to be the brain. You know how it works."

Mark frowned. "Grace and Eleanor, Polish?"

Gault shrugged and addressed Mark directly for the first time. "Not their real names, I don't think. When they came over, the parents renamed them to make them more American. They just picked up those names from the papers."

Mark titled his head. "Eleanor Roosevelt and Grace . . .um, Gracie Allen?"

Gault raised a brow in surprise. "Maybe. I never asked though."

Mark again felt the subtle press of Hardcastle's knee although this time it wasn't a warning. A little emboldened, he asked, "Was Grace about five three or so?"

Gault looked bewildered. Then his expression cleared. "Ah, the skeleton was five thee." He looked off into the distance for a moment and considered. "I don't know exactly how tall either of them were. Not tall. I remember that." He paused and thought for another moment. Then he looked at Hardcastle. "You should ask your sister-in-law. She might remember more."

Mark pushed further. "Was Grace that beautiful? A knock-out?"

Gault nodded and then looked sharply at the two of them. "Are we still talking about identifying a skeleton?"

"We're finding out what we can find out," Hardcastle said reasonably.

"For what? So you can go riding off for justice, shooting up the town?"

Hardcastle finally let some of his exasperation show. "What the hell is your problem with me poking around?"

Gault leaned back again and said acidly. "My 'problem' as you put it, is the same problem I have with anyone who disrespects the system. I had thought that you shared it, but you've been proving me wrong."

"What disrespect?" Hardcastle asked, genuinely surprised.

Mark flinched with the sudden, unwanted thought that maybe Gault had a point.

"The system," Gault said firmly. "The one that upholds the rule of law. The one that says that those 'legal technicalities' that you're so dismissive of actually have a purpose. The system that says maybe it's better that a few guilty people do go free if it means certain liberties are protected. The system that says the police enforce the law and that citizens don't take the law into their own hands, no matter who they are."

Hardcastle said nothing but Mark felt his body got rigid next to him. Mark flushed angrily.

"Hey look, this girl is dead, okay? I found her. She was just shoved in the ground like she was nothing. Maybe that doesn't bother you, but it bothers me."

This time Hardcastle wasn't subtle. He gripped Mark's leg hard, right above his knee. Mark shut up.

"You got anything more you can tell us?" Hardcastle asked coolly.

"I don't know anything else that will help identify her. If there's a crime involved here then the police are welcome to come and talk to me." Gault's emphasis on 'police' was pronounced.

"They just might," Hardcastle said.

"Fine. If they're involved then maybe, just maybe, you won't get your fool head shot off." He gestured angrily at Mark. "And maybe he won't either. I don't think much of your rehabilitation plan, Milt. And I'm not the only one. You might want to think about that."

Hardcastle's face was a cold mask. Without taking his eyes off Gault, he stood slowly. Mark rose as well. Gault remained seated. Hardcastle stared down at him for a moment before turning sharply to head towards the door, Mark hard at his heels.

"Milt." Gault's voice was less harsh. Hardcastle paused.

"I don't expect you to agree with me," Gault said to his back. "But I know you're a fair man. And I want you to remember that so am I."

Without turning, Hardcastle gave a slow nod and then continued walking. Mark followed. He could think of nothing to say.

000000000000000

The drive back to Gulls' Way had been mostly silent. It was past noon when they'd left Gault's and Mark had tentatively suggested stopping somewhere to pick up food. The judge had simply grunted and continued staring out the window. Mark had given up and driven straight home.

When he pulled into the driveway, Mark's eyes automatically went to the gatehouse. From his angle, he could see part of the police scene tape still surrounding the hole. He wondered how long it would be up. It looked disturbingly out of place among the grass and hedges.

Hardcastle wiggled out of the Coyote and headed towards the main house without a word. Mark stood by the car and watched him. He considered following him but since he hadn't gotten anywhere in the car, he doubted it would do any good. Instead, he walked over the gatehouse. In their absence, the sprinklers had done their job and the grass was wet. He stood back from the hole so he wouldn't get mud on his shoes. The shallow end of the hole was only about a foot deep. Amazing that no one had dug her up before. Of course, they'd plunked the gatehouse on her head so there was that obstacle. It was like something out of the Wizard of Oz but without the Munchkins. Poor girl. Poor Grace. Maybe Grace. Maybe not.

Hardcastle stood at the window and watched Mark contemplate their so-called crime scene. He was relieved and grateful that McCormick hadn't followed him into the house. He needed a little time. Rick Gault always seemed to know just where to stick the knife. And of course the hell of it was, he wasn't wrong.

Gault was two years younger than he was. When they'd first met, those two years had seemed like a huge gulf. He had been in the Pacific. Gault was in law school. Even back then, Gault's career had been neatly planned out. Hardcastle had initially written him off as some spoiled rich boy. Of course, he had tagged most of Nancy's friends that way. And then some of them had surprised him. Gault was one of them. Rick Gault had been in practice for almost ten years by the time Hardcastle had graduated from law school. Though they hadn't been terribly close, Gault had remembered him and threw some work his way. A nice thing to do. Rick was usually a pretty fair guy.

Hardcastle sighed and watched as Mark paced in front of the hole, no doubt getting mud all over his shoes which he would then track into the house. The kid had been pretty apprehensive about meeting with Gault. He could hardly blame McCormick. Gault had been responsible for getting him arrested the last time they'd crossed paths. And even if he could see Gault's reasoning in that, it wasn't something Hardcastle could easily forgive.

Mark crouched down by the hole as if a close examination of the ground could tell him what they wanted to know. Hardcastle smiled gently at the sight. Yeah, he understood why Gault had had McCormick picked up. It was a reasonable thing for a judge to do. And maybe that was why he often felt that Gault was a better judge than he was. Gault was impartial, whereas he . . . tried to be.

Mark rose and looked towards the house. Hardcastle ducked quickly behind the curtain. He knew he wasn't impartial about McCormick. Even from the get-go, when Mark was a scared kid hiding behind a big mouth, he had done what he could to help him. He'd never agreed with mandatory sentencing guidelines and felt McCormick was absolutely a poster boy for the case against them. But he'd been stuck with them, so he'd given McCormick the minimum and recommended parole when the time came. And really, judicially there was no reason for that. He shouldn't have cared. Gault wouldn't have. As a judge, Gault would have been right. But as a human being, Gault would have been wrong. And Hardcastle was daily reminded of that.

Mark squinted at the main house. He thought he saw a curtain move, but he was probably mistaken. Hardcastle hadn't come out yet. He wondered how long this funk would last. He just knew that visiting Gault would turn out to be a disaster. He'd thought he'd be the one to get smacked down. It would have been better if it had been him. He was used to it. Sometimes it seemed to be the way of the world. For Hardcastle to be brought up short though, that wasn't good. To see the judge rattled was just wrong. For some reason it made him feel unanchored. Like he was five years old again and sitting on a fire escape, watching and waiting.

Mark shook himself. He was being silly. And he had work to do. Okay, so Hardcastle needed to regroup, that didn't mean he was paralyzed. Gault had actually given them some useful information. He just had to follow through. He could go do something useful and then talk to the judge later on. Maybe order pizza or something. With a last look at the house, Mark strode back to the Coyote.

Hardcastle heard the distinctive roar of the Coyote and sat up. For a second, he pondered running out to stop McCormick. Then he rejected the thought. There really wasn't any danger to him with this case. And he was damn sure the kid wasn't running out on him. That hadn't really been a concern for quite a while. Probably McCormick just needed some time alone.

00000000000000000

Without much thought, Mark headed for D.D.'s place in Santa Monica. As he pulled up to the curb in front of her neat little complex he realized that, aside from the short trip in his car, this would be the first time he had spoken to her without the judge along. The thought made him a little nervous. Not that he thought she'd slam the door in his face or anything, but some of the judge's friends did act a little funny when they met him alone. Some were pretty cool. Some were hostile. Some acted afraid. The scared ones were the worst.

He needn't have worried though. D.D. didn't even seem to notice that he was alone. She flung open the door in response to his knock and greeted him by grabbing his forearm and pulling him inside. "Well, at last!" she said. "Here I've been on pins and needles." She led him to a small sofa and pushed him into it. Then she curled up next to him for all the world like a kid begging for a bedtime story. "I've been very good. I haven't called you at all. But I'm dying to know what you've found out."

"It hasn't even been two days."

"I know Milt. He's not one to sit on his hands. So tell me." She gave him a poke in the ribs.

Mark thought for a moment, wondering where to begin. "Okay, first I guess we're still not entirely sure how she died, but it looks like she may have gotten smacked in the head."

"The skull?"

"Yeah. There was like a slice in it. They can't say for sure that it killed her, but. . ." Mark shrugged.

D.D. nodded and then gave him a rueful look. "Am I ghoulish? I don't mean to be, but it's such a puzzle."

"Yeah, I know. I feel sorry for her and all but it was so long ago."

"Not that long ago." D.D. objected.

Mark flashed her a quick smile. "Nah, I know. But anyway, they found some coins on her. It looks like we guessed the date about right. Right before the gatehouse went up."

D.D. nodded again, more soberly. "So it could very well be someone I knew. Now I do feel ghoulish."

Mark shook his head again but didn't directly answer her. "The judge showed me a picture. From back then, I mean. You were in it."

D.D. made an agreeing noise. "I expect I was. I told you I was a tag-along."

"You were standing next to Grace." It wasn't quite a question.

D.D. frowned. "I wish I could remember more clearly. I do remember Grace, but we weren't special friends or anything like that."

"Did you know her sister?"

D.D. looked at him blankly for a moment before comprehension appeared on her face. "Eleanor."

"Yeah."

"My Lord. I'd forgotten all about her." She shook her head, staring blankly in front of her.

When it became clear that she wasn't going to say anymore, Mark spoke again. "See, here's the thing. The skeleton was pretty short. Five three or so. And if you look at that picture, pretty much everyone is taller than that. Except for you and Grace. So maybe it's Grace, but if she had a sister the same size, then maybe it's her."

D.D. continued to stare at nothing. "Who told you about Eleanor?"

Mark winced. "Judge Gault. We went to his place today."

D.D. slanted him a look. "Oh, Rick."

"The one that got away," Mark teased.

D.D. gave him a light smack on the shoulder. "If you ever tell anyone what I said about him . . ."

Mark grinned at her. "Your secret is safe with me. I still can't even believe it. A crush on Rick Gault. Don't ever come to me for a character reference." Then he thought for a moment. "You said he was more Nancy's friend. Your sister and him, they weren't . . ." He made an ambiguous gesture with his left hand.

"Oh, good heavens no! He was just another one of her people."

"Oh." Mark paused and gently bit his lower lip. "D.D. Can I ask you something?"

D.D. raised a brow. "Yes," she said carefully.

"It's nothing bad," Mark said quickly, "at least I don't think so. It's just when the judge, my judge, and Judge Gault started talking it was kind of funny. Like they were poking each other with sticks or something."

D.D. smiled wanly. "That doesn't really surprise me. Rick could be a bit of a snob."

Mark thought. "You mean because Hardcastle wasn't rich? He gave him a hard time?"

D.D. nodded, considering. "Nothing blatant," she said. "For one thing Nancy wouldn't have put up with that. For another, well," she shrugged, "Rick was a snob, but he wasn't a vicious snob. He just categorized people. You know, the right sort and the wrong sort."

"Hardcastle was the wrong sort."

"Yes. Rick wasn't nasty about it. None of them were. But, to some of them anyway, he was an outsider and I'm sure he felt it."

"You didn't treat him like an outsider," Mark said with certainty.

D.D. flushed. "Don't make me out to be a heroine. I liked him because he noticed me. I was the child among the big kids but he would take the time to talk to me." She gave a quick laugh. "I'm sure Nancy must have put him up to it."

"No, I don't think so," Mark said seriously.

D.D. bent her head and didn't look at him. After a moment she said. "I forgot about Eleanor. That's terrible."

She sounded so self-condemning that Mark reached out and touched her shoulder. "It was a long time ago."

D.D. shook her head vigorously. "No. I remembered Grace, you see? The pretty one, of course. And I forgot Eleanor."

Mark tentatively replied, "Gault said Grace was the beauty and Eleanor was the brain."

D.D. lifted her head up. "Did he?" she said with some snap.

"What?"

"Do you have any brothers or sisters, Mark?"

Mark blinked. "No."

"I don't know if you'd know then. It's just what people do with siblings. More categorizing. If one is pretty then the other must be brainy. Nancy was charming so I was studious. You see? As if you have to be opposites. Even if it's not really the case, they call you that. You can't really escape it."

Mark tried to lighten the mood. "Guess it's too bad I don't have a brother then. He'd probably win the Nobel Prize or something."

D.D. looked at him in surprise. "No." She smiled at him and touched his knee. "He'd be the cad."

It was Mark's turn to blush. D.D. took pity on him and brought the topic back to the point. "Grace was a very pretty girl. But Eleanor was quite a well-looking girl herself. She was quieter than Grace. People always assumed that she and I were closer than we actually were because we were both a bit on the fringes, you see

"Could it be Eleanor? Or do you think it's Grace?"

D.D. shook her head. "To answer your original question, yes, they were about the same height. I've been trying to think if I saw either one of them after Nancy and Milt got married. I don't think so. The parties, the get-togethers; they were much less frequent after their marriage. They were pretty wrapped up in each other. And then, not too long after that, I went to college and then got married myself. I never really lived at the house after that so I don't know who all was around."

Mark nodded. This case was looking more impossible all the time. This would teach him to mess with landscaping. Like the place needed more roses. He tilted his head at D.D. "Can I ask you one more thing? You don't have to answer."

"That sounds ominous."

"More like nosy. It's none of my business, but how come you didn't inherit Gulls' Way?"

"Oh," D.D. exhaled the word.

Mark hastily added, "You don't have to answer. It's just that it seems kind of unfair. It was your home too."

D.D. reached out and, to Mark's surprise, grabbed his wrist. "You really like Gulls' Way, don't you?"

"Well, sure," Mark stammered.

"Milt came from farmers. You knew that?"

Mark nodded at the apparent non-sequitur.

"I knew exactly when Nancy decided to marry him. It was quite early on. I came across the two of them digging in the backyard one day. Milt had convinced her to plant a Victory Garden. Nancy knew about growing flowers but not vegetables. Milt knew all about that. They put their heads together and planned how the entire estate would look when they were through." D.D. laughed. "Of course they forgot to tell Dad about any of this."

Mark found himself smiling. "Oh no."

"Oh yes. But it was the way Milt planned it out with her that decided Nancy. She could never have loved anyone who didn't love her home."

"But not you?"

"No, not me. I loved the place of course, but I wanted to get out and see some of the world." She shrugged, "maybe get out of Nancy's shadow a bit. Not be the studious one. When my parents died, well, to be blunt I got most of the money and she got Gulls' Way. I was happy with that and so was she."

"I'm sorry. Like I said, it's really not any of my business."

D.D. gave his wrist a squeeze before releasing it. "It's all right. I think you're something like Nancy and Milt. That's a relief."

"A relief?"

"Milt won't live forever." She stood up to end the conversation and Mark was left wondering what on earth she meant by that.

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It was dark by the time that Mark got back to Gulls' Way. Hardcastle wasn't quite waiting on the porch, but the entryway light was on. Mark took one look at the gatehouse and then headed towards the main house. He called out for the judge as he entered and heard a reply, "In the den."

Hardcastle was once more sitting at his desk. Several photo albums were now on the desk, but they were closed. The judge didn't appear to be looking at anything in particular.

"Hey," Mark greeted him.

Hardcastle grunted. "You eat?"

"Nah, not yet."

"She didn't feed you? She's off her game."

Mark looked at him in surprise. "You knew where I was?"

"Where else would you go?" Hardcastle pushed away from the desk and stood up. "Come on, we've got cold cuts."

Mark wordlessly followed him to the kitchen and watched silently as the judge started pulling stuff from the refrigerator. Hardcastle was unusually quiet, and a quiet Hardcastle was unnerving. Their visit with Gault must have shaken him even more than Mark originally thought.

Mark took a plate and sat at the kitchen table opposite the judge. He picked up his sandwich and spoke from behind it. "You want to hear what she said?"

Hardcastle was munching distractedly on his own sandwich. He shrugged. "I guess."

Mark put his sandwich back down without having taken a bite. It was too hard to eat with the elephant in the kitchen. "You just guess? Look, why are you letting Gault bother you so much? What we said was right. This girl deserves some answers."

Hardcastle swallowed and fixed Mark with a stare. "What Gault said was right too, you know."

Mark shrugged. "A little bit maybe. But his being kind of right doesn't make us wrong. I mean, motive counts, right? We're doing this for good reasons. It's not like we just go off half-cocked and shoot up the town."

"I know that," Hardcastle said, as if all this was obvious.

"Then what? Why the big brooding thing?"

"Gault is right enough to sound really reasonable. And what he said about you. He could . . ." Hardcastle hesitated and then said carefully, "He could make things kind of difficult."

Mark frowned, considering. "But you're a judge too. What could he do to you?"

"I'm a retired judge. And it's not me I'm worried about."

Mark felt a quick flush of panic before clamping down hard on it. "Did he say something that I missed?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "You know he's not your biggest fan."

"But what could he do?" Mark said trying to be logical. "I'm in _your_ custody."

Hardcastle leaned forward and propped his chin on his hand. "Yeah, I know. But this whole deal is a little unorthodox. If paroling starts getting questions from a judge, well, it's not good."

Mark looked away. "You think they'd revoke?" he said in a small voice.

Hardcastle straightened up. "I won't let it come to that."

"You said you're retired. He's not. Doesn't he trump you?"

Hardcastle spoke sharply. "Hey, look at me." Mark swallowed and looked back. The judge had shed his distracted air. He fixed Mark with a firm look. "I won't let anyone trump me about that."

"Okay," Mark said softly and then a little more certainly, "Okay."

Hardcastle gave him a sharp nod and then shoved Mark's plate at him. "Will you quit wasting food and eat something, for crying out loud?"

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Later, back in the den, Mark asked to see the photo albums to see if he could find a picture of Eleanor. He had related everything that D.D. had said. Or everything that Mark considered relevant, which was probably less than a quarter of what she had said. Hardcastle digested the information and shook his head. "So it could be Grace, it could be Eleanor, it could be someone else entirely. And maybe they were murdered or maybe it was an accident, or maybe it was natural causes and the body just got put there."

Mark nodded absently, engrossed in the albums. Even though he was supposed to be looking for a small woman who wasn't Grace, he inevitably kept seeking out the judge in the photos. The judge wasn't in all of them, not by a long shot, but he did appear in quite a few. He looked like some solid corn-fed football hero, which come to think about it was kind of what he was. He also looked incredibly young. It was hard to believe he'd already been to war and was starting on his cop career. Impressive really. Most of the others, even those Hardcastle's age, were probably still in school.

Hardcastle wasn't at all fooled. He knew the kid wasn't just looking for potential skeletons. But the interest was kind of flattering. McCormick really seemed to soak up things that most guys his age would consider pretty tiresome. Things like old photo albums or visits with elderly relatives. Of course, for McCormick, all of that was probably pretty exotic. He wondered if McCormick had any old pictures of his own. Probably not. When he'd first moved into the gatehouse, McCormick had set out a couple of framed photos. Hardcastle had recognized it as a territorial thing. They were mostly racing photos. The only one that seemed at all personal was one of McCormick and Flip Johnson. It was a candid shot in some garage somewhere. McCormick was leaning back against the driver's side door of a flashy black car that was up on blocks. Johnson stood in front of him, explaining something judging from the intent look on Mark's face. Johnson looked more like a history professor than mechanic. Hardcastle used to think about that picture quite a bit. And then one day he noticed a framed copy of his own formal judiciary head shot appeared in the gatehouse. Mark had noticed his look of surprise and said, "It scares away the spiders. Better than any exterminator." And Hardcastle just let that lie, not asking about that picture and thinking a bit less often of the Flip Johnson one.

Now he watched as McCormick paged through the photo albums, a deeply curious, almost yearning look on his face. Hardcastle swallowed.

"Listen."

"Hmmm?"

"Look, kiddo, I'm wondering if we should drop this."

That got McCormick's attention. He looked up from the album. "What?"

"I'm wondering if we should just let this one go."

"Let it go?" Mark said incredulously. "I thought we were on the same page here. Give the girl a name. Try to find out what happened to her."

Hardcastle shrugged. "Yeah, and we tried. Some cases just aren't solvable. I know. I had my share when I was a cop. You gotta know when to let things go."

"Let things go?" Mark set the album down. It was opened to a picture of Nancy and D.D. sitting under a tree and grinning at the camera.

"We got nothing for certain anywhere. No identity. No real cause of death. Nothing."

"What we got is a skeleton in the yard," Mark said with some heat. "It was there. And unless you figure out how it got there, you're always going to think about it every time you go outside. You're going to look around and you're not going to think, 'oh gee, the roses need pruning' or 'gosh, the hedges need trimming.' You're going to think, 'that's where we found that skeleton.'"

Hardcastle scowled at him. "I thought you were all about truth and justice for this girl. What, now you're worried about property values?"

"I'm not talking about property values, geez." Mark paused and took a breath. "Look, I care about her okay. But it's kind of a general caring, you know? Just that anyone deserves better than that." He stopped again and frowned. "I mean the other stuff, too, though. I don't want to think that something really bad happened here, okay? It's just . . .wrong."

Hardcastle stared at Mark for a moment and then dropped his eyes only to see Nancy's face smiling up at him. He recognized the tree. It was still there, now about twice the size as it was in the photo. Nancy would know just what McCormick was saying. Hell, she'd agree with him. Of course, she was dead now. Like so many in these albums. Dead and gone.

Hardcastle spoke carefully. "I want you to think about this. This case may be insolvable. It may be there was never a crime to begin with. It may be that anyone involved is dead by now. If we do go forward, Gault may get annoyed enough to make some phone calls."

"You said you wouldn't let him revoke," Mark said quietly.

"I won't. But that doesn't mean he won't try. And it doesn't mean he won't try to alter the conditions of your parole."

Mark paled. "You mean he'd try to go back to the old arrangement."

"Something like that. I'm pretty sure he'd ask to revoke my custody." Mark clenched his fist. Hardcastle noticed and added. "It makes sense to him. I drag you into some pretty questionable situations."

"You don't drag me in. Or if you do, I do the same to you."

"I'm asking you to think about this. You know a little bit about criminal justice."

Mark snorted, "Yeah. Up close and personal."

Hardcastle ignored that old argument. "So you know about prosecutorial discretion?"

Mark frowned. "You mean who gets prosecuted and who doesn't?"

"Yeah. Not all crimes are created equal. Prosecutor gets to do a cost-benefit analysis. He's gotta ask himself whether or not something is worth taking to trial. If he doesn't think it is, he may just let it go."

Mark drummed his fingers on the table. "You think this is like that? We got to do a, what, cost-benefit analysis?"

Hardcastle nodded. "I know it doesn't seem fair, but it is reality. Some things might not be worth sticking your neck out for."

Mark looked at him in surprise. "I thought you'd pretty much stick your neck out for anything."

"_My_ neck, I would."

"Oh." Mark thought for a moment. "If it were just you, what would you do?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "Nope. One thing they teach you in judge's school is not to answer hypothetical questions."

Mark frowned at him. Donkey. "Okay then. What do you _think_?"

Hardcastle looked down. Again his eyes rested on the photo of Nancy and D.D. "You recognize the tree?"

"What?" Mark asked in surprise.

Hardcastle tapped the photo. "You recognize that tree?"

In a tone that indicated he was humoring one of the mentally deficient, Mark said, "Sure. That's the lemonade tree."

Hardcastle squinted up at him, his turn to be surprised. "The what?"

"Good place to drink lemonade. Lots of shade. Plus that tree likes lemonade."

Hardcastle stared at him. "Are you watering my trees with lemonade?"

"Just what's left in the glass. That one likes it."

Hardcastle shook his head in disbelief. Nancy smiled up at him.

"And don't dodge the question, Your Honor."

With a last look at the photo, the judge shut the album. "I think," he said slowly, "that we let this one go. I think it's not worth it."

Mark said nothing. He stared at Hardcastle's hands as they rested on the photo album. "Okay," Mark said just as thoughtfully, "okay."

"You with me?"

Mark shook his head. He was suddenly very tired. He wanted to go back to the gatehouse. He wanted to go home. "I don't know. I just don't know."

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Which only proved, Mark thought as he staggered out of bed late the next day, that he was a complete idiot. Why in the hell should he risk everything he now had to push for answers on a case that was probably insolvable? Could they even do anything more for this woman? He regarded his haggard face in the bathroom mirror. Okay, prosecutorial discretion. He had to weigh stuff. On the one hand was his parole status. On the other was the benefit of solving this thing. He paused, a handful of shaving cream poised near his face. That wasn't quite right. It was more like weighing the likelihood of his parole status being altered against the likelihood of solving the case. One depended on Gault. The other depended on God only knew what. That was the problem, he just hadn't been doing the Tonto thing all that long. He had no real idea how you decided which cases you could solve and which you couldn't. But maybe, he thought as he lathered his face, he knew someone who did.

Mark quickly finished getting ready, grabbed his keys and headed out. After some deliberation, he decided against checking in with the judge. The fact that he hadn't been wakened by the sound of a basketball at 6:00 a.m. seemed to indicate that Hardcastle had decided to give him a little space. At least Mark hoped so. With a final look at the main house, Mark hopped into the Coyote and headed downtown.

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Frank Harper gently upended the contents of the paper bag over his desk and smiled at the contents. He usually made his own lunch. Sometimes though, Claudia got domestic and threw something together for him. Inevitably, she'd put in something weird. This time it was animal crackers. Not a Ziploc bag with some crackers in it. Oh no. She'd put in the whole box. The one shaped like a circus wagon. Frank opened it carefully and placed a small handful on his desk. He started to pair them together in case of flooding. The rap at his door made him start guiltily. The door opened and a tired-looking Mark McCormick poked his head in. "Mark," he said in surprise. He looked past him. "Where's Milt?"

Mark entered a bit nervously. Police stations did that to him. "He's not here. It's just me."

"Oh," Frank said. This was different. He didn't think he'd ever spoken to McCormick without Milt there. "Sit down," he said.

Mark sat on the edge of one of the visitor's chairs. "Am I interrupting?"

Frank looked down at his project. He was short a camel. "Nah, nothing important. What's up?"

Mark looked around the room. His eyes settled on the window behind Frank, like it was an escape route. "Can I ask you something?"

Frank leaned back in his chair, wondering what he would be getting himself into if he said yes. "Yes."

"How long have you been a detective?"

Frank pulled his head back in surprise. "Um. Twenty years this year."

Mark blinked and then looked at him. "Oh, congratulations."

"Thanks. Any reason you want to know? Gonna buy me a watch?"

Mark finally grinned at him, which was a lot more normal behavior from him. "Maybe a commemorative holster."

"Okay. My middle initial is M, so get the monogram right."

"Don't tell me your middle name is Milt."

Frank smiled slyly at him. "Nah. Mark, actually."

"Yeah?"

"No."

Mark laughed and started to relax. "Geez, Frank."

"Questions about my middle name are off limits, but is there anything else you wanted to know?"

Mark's grin lost some of its wattage and he looked away. "I need your advice on something. You got experience and I just don't."

"Experience," Frank let the word trail off and then asked, "Does Milt know about this?"

Mark looked back at him and nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. I mean, he knows the problem. I don't know if he exactly knows I'm here, but I'm not doing anything behind his back. I wouldn't do that."

"Okay, I guess I know that. What did you need? This about our skeleton?"

"Yeah. I need to know if you think we can solve this one."

Frank straightened. "Why? What's stopping you?"

Mark bit his lower lip. "Hardcastle and I, see, we were talking and he was going on about prosecutorial discretion. That you got to know when it's worthwhile to go forward."

Frank frowned, puzzled. "That doesn't sound like Milt."

"I know. But there's some other . . . stuff that he's weighing against going forward."

"What stuff?" When Mark didn't immediately reply, Frank leaned forward again. "Look, I need to know. This is still technically an open case for us. If you know something, I need to know it too."

Mark exhaled. "Yeah, yeah, okay." He paused to order his thoughts. "Yesterday we went to see Judge Gault to see if he remembered anything. I guess he was an old friend of the family." Mark hesitated again and then said, "He's not my biggest cheerleader."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

Frank picked up a pencil and started rolling it in his fingers. He didn't like where this was headed. "He threatened to go to paroling? Or just take the direct route and toss you in jail again?"

Mark shook his head. "Neither. Not specifically anyway. But it's a possibility, you know? He's really not happy about the whole Lone Ranger thing. Really not happy."

"Okay," Frank said and considered. Of course it was Gault. Frank had never really had a problem with the guy. He was a good law and order type judge. The kind of judge cops like. But Frank had never developed any kind of relationship with him like he had with Hardcastle. Gault was a little stand-offish. Nothing really wrong with that, but he wouldn't ever be grilling steaks with the guy. "Okay, you want to know how likely it is that you'll solve this thing so you can decide whether or not it's worth it to piss off Gault?"

Mark slumped in his chair. "Yeah. Pretty selfish, I know."

"No, no. That you even consider the question shows me it's not selfish."

Mark gave him a quick, grateful look, but Frank's eyes were closed, his head tipped back. After a moment, he straightened and opened his eyes. "Okay, how likely is it that you'll solve this thing. Let's break that down. As for how likely it is that you'll identify the woman, I'd say it's pretty likely. You've got a time frame, you've got some names. That's a big help." Mark was leaning forward now, looking a bit more hopeful. "Now, will you ever be a hundred percent sure? Probably not. But still, you can be pretty sure. Now, how likely is it that you'll find out what happened to her? Harder to say. You might get lucky when you talk to people. Sometimes you'll be handed an impossible case and just when you're about to give up, something just drops in your lap. So it's hard to say."

Mark fell back in his chair. "That isn't stunningly helpful, Frank."

Frank chuckled. "Yeah, welcome to the police department. What can I say? Every case is different."

"So I'm right back where I started," Mark said glumly.

"Not exactly. 'Cause I do have a suggestion."

Mark looked at him, caution warring with hope. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Try it from the other end. Find out how likely it is that Gault will yank you."

Mark looked at Frank as if he had suggested sticking his hand in an oven to check on the roast. Frank stared calmly back and popped a zebra in his mouth.

"You're serious," Mark said.

Frank shrugged. "Why not?"

Mark rolled his eyes up towards the ceiling. "'Why not' he says. How about because Gault will eat me alive. I really don't think reminding him of my existence is the best policy here. I walk in the door he'll just be on the phone to the cops."

Frank chewed and swallowed. "Not if you're _with_ a cop."

Mark's eyes dropped back to Frank. They were wide with surprise and a little suspicion. "What did you say?"

"I'll go with you," Frank said calmly.

Mark resisted the urge to look over his shoulder to see if Hardcastle had entered the room. Frank after all was the judge's friend. "You'll go with me?" He repeated dumbly.

"Sure, why not?"

Mark's tongue tangled up in his mouth for a moment. When he sorted everything out, all he could say was, "Why?"

Frank wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked at him steadily. "Which answer would make you feel better, that I don't want anything to happen to you for your sake, or that I don't want anything to happen to you for Milt's sake?"

Mark stared blankly at him until he realized Frank wasn't being rhetorical. "Whichever one is true, I guess."

Frank stood up and pulled his jacket off the back of his chair. "They're both true. Come on, while I'm still on lunch."

Mark stood, still not quite sure what had happened here. He looked gratefully at Frank who was busy sliding his coat on. Then he took a deep breath. Okay, he could do this. He was a race car driver. He'd spent two years in Q. He was Judge Milton C. Hardcastle's clay pigeon. He could go talk to some old judge. His eyes dropped to Frank's desk and he managed a smile. "Frank, can I ask one more favor?"

Frank raised an eyebrow.

"Could we bring the cookies?"

00000000000000000

They took the Coyote. Partly because this was only semi-kind-of-official police business but mostly because Frank had never been in the car before. Frank sat still in the passenger seat and looked at all the dials. He kept eyeing the speedometer. Finally Mark asked, "Frank, do you _want_ me to speed?"

Frank pondered. "Put it this way, I'm a homicide detective. Speeders we usually leave to patrol."

"Prosecutorial discretion," Mark said and stepped on the gas.

Mark let Frank handle the intercom at Gault's gate. It was instructional to hear him do it. Just a minimum of information, "LAPD. Detective Frank Harper for Judge Gault." Mark figured it was the inflection that was so impressive. Frank sounded bored. Like no one would dream of denying him admission so why worry about such things. Mark wondered how much of a pose Frank's lugubriousness was. Maybe he just tried to lull people - like Columbo. All slouchy sleepiness and then whammo. They were immediately let through the gate and Mark pulled up into the drive and parked. While Frank tried to figure out how to get out of the car, Mark fished through the now nearly empty box of animal crackers and popped a lion in his mouth.

They were ushered in by a maid. Gault wasn't immediately available, off filing his teeth or something. Frank sank down to sit on the same sofa Hardcastle had sat on when they had come before. Mark paced nearby. "This is a really bad idea. What am I supposed to say to him? 'Hey, are you really going to go to the parole board about me, because I'd much rather you didn't.'"

Frank didn't react. He picked up a magazine from the coffee able and started flipping through it. Mark wondered how Claudia coped with someone who was always so maddeningly calm.

"Frank," he said in a neutral voice, "the room's on fire."

Frank glanced up at him and then went back to his magazine. Mark sighed and sat down beside him.

"Mostly people want you kind of agitated," Frank said casually. "It's usually best if you aren't."

Mark swiveled his head to look at him and Frank met his glance, an amused look in his eyes. Mark flashed him a grin. "Ice in my veins."

Frank quirked his lips "And half my lunch in your stomach."

Mark's grin widened as he readied a retort. He was unprepared when Gault walked in the room. Gault stopped at the threshold, his eyes going from Frank to Mark. Frank stood and Mark automatically did the same.

"He's with you now?" Gault said.

"He helps us out from time to time," Frank replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Gault's eyes narrowed suspiciously at Frank. Frank stared blandly back until Gault broke the contact and sat, impatiently gesturing for Frank and Mark to do the same. "What can I do for you, detective?"

Frank resumed his seat, Mark once again a beat behind him.

Frank pulled out a small notepad from his jacket and flicked it open, frowning at the pages. Mark gave him an admiring look. The pad was a new one. It was completely blank. Pure window dressing. "I understand that Judge Hardcastle spoke to you about the skeleton that was unearthed at his place."

Gault shot a quick, accusing look at Mark which Frank didn't miss. Gault nodded.

"I just have a couple of questions, if you don't mind."

"Why?" Gault asked bluntly.

Frank looked up from his pad. "You do mind?"

Gault fixed him with his stare. He looked like an irate lizard. Frank shrugged. "From what I understand from Milt and Mark, you were one of the people who may have known the, uh, deceased. We still need to ID her."

Gault shrugged and said bitingly, "I can't tell you any more than what I've told them."

"Nothing? Female, about five three?"

"I told Milt that it could be Grace Jendrowski. It could be Eleanor Jendrowski. It could be just about anyone."

"I see," Frank said, and managed to sound both disappointed and disbelieving.

Gault leaned back and crossed his legs. "I have a question for you though."

"Please," Frank said.

"When did you deputize him?" Gault gestured at Mark without looking at him.

Mark tensed, but Frank sounded unperturbed when he replied. "We didn't. But he found the remains and I thought it would be helpful to have him with me today."

"How would it be helpful?"

Frank closed the notebook and eased it back in his jacket. He took his time doing it and then settled back in his seat. "I have wide discretion in the manner in which I conduct my investigations. You know that, Judge."

Gault narrowed his eyes at Frank and Mark felt a quick stab of conscience. He hadn't realized that Frank could really make an enemy here. Without giving his brain a chance to slip into gear, his mouth stepped on the gas. "I was the one who wanted to see you," he blurted out. Frank sent him an exasperated 'shut up' look which Mark pretended not to see. "I shouldn't have dragged Frank into it, but I wanted to see you without Judge Hardcastle."

Gault turned to Mark in surprise. He eyed Mark for a moment and Mark was startled to see a gleam of respect in his eyes. "Well, you're seeing me."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, okay." He swallowed. "Okay, look, I know you don't like me, right? I mean you threw me in jail," Mark held up a hand to forestall an interruption. "Yeah, I can kind of see why you would do that, but I guess you know that that means you're not my favorite person either."

"Is there a point to all this?" Gault said testily.

"Yeah. I think so," Mark continued more firmly. "Judge Hardcastle, he actually respects you, you know? So that tells me that we're all kind of on the same side here." Mark waited until Gault gave him the tiniest of nods. "Okay, so I'm here because I need to know that you're not going to do anything that could take me away from him. 'Cause see, he needs me to be there. It's just not safe for him to operate without me."

"And of course, you'd rather not go back to prison."

Mark nodded matter-of-factly. "Yeah, there's that too."

"Did you ever think that maybe it's safer for you to be away from him?"

Mark almost automatically said no, but Gault was staring steadily at him, waiting for an answer. He thought for a moment and answered honestly. "I guess in some ways it would be. But it wouldn't be safer for him."

"Believe it or not, McCormick, the State of California would really rather you successfully completed your parole than that you wound up getting killed working for Hardcastle."

"I won't get killed," Mark said simply.

"You don't know that. And without you at his beck and call, maybe Milt will give up this ridiculous game he's playing. Because it might get _him_ killed."

"I wouldn't let that happen."

"You don't know that either." Gault looked at Frank. "Lieutenant, I read the papers but I don't know the exact numbers. How many times have Judge Hardcastle and Mr. McCormick been shot at in the past few months?"

Frank hesitated. "I don't know," he said quietly.

"Probably a bit more than the national average, I'd guess."

Mark felt a flare of temper. "So what? It's our decision."

"Some people are questioning whether it's _your_ decision. You're in his custody."

Mark stiffened. "Oh, for. . . Look, if he was, like, forcing me to help him would I even be here now? You think I don't know this whole arrangement is as unorthodox as hell? That one phone call to Dalem or the parole board could end the whole thing? You think I'm not smart enough to find a way to call it off if I wanted to?"

Silence followed his remarks. It took a moment for him to realize that Frank was as startled by his outburst as Gault was.

"You don't want to end it," Frank said, not quite a question.

Mark tossed him an impatient look, "Of course not."

Gault eyed him silently for a moment. "All right," he finally said, "all right." Then he continued with more vigor. "None of that changes the fact that you two are intruding on matters that should be left to the police."

"No, they shouldn't," Mark said definitely. Frank continued to stare at him. "Everybody says that. Let the authorities handle it. It's none of your business. Don't get involved." Frank's eyes widened as Mark's tone grew more heated. "I'm so sick of hearing that. I've heard that from people all my life. 'Don't get involved. Just turn your back. It's not your business.' I'm sick of it!"

"Mark," Frank began.

"No, no, I know it's not the cops' fault. It's just, what, are we all supposed to sit on our hands while someone like J.J. Beal goes around killing people? We're just supposed to watch? I've been in Q, you know? Maybe you think I belonged there, maybe I even did. But let me tell you, there are people in there who should never, _ever_ be let out. And the only reason some of them managed to stay out for so long in the first place is because no one but the police ever tried to stop them." Mark clenched his right hand into a fist and pounded his thigh. You can't just ignore the world 'cause you're not a cop. You can't." Mark took a breath and suddenly looked a bit self-conscious. He deliberately unclenched his fist and laid his hand at his side. Then he lifted his chin and looked steadily at Gault. "You don't need fewer Hardcastles. You need more."

From his side, Mark heard an almost inaudible murmur. "'In order for evil to triumph, it is only necessary that good men do nothing,'" He flicked a glance at Frank who gave him a small smile in return. When he looked back at Gault, the man was looking away from them with a distant, meditative expression on his face. After a moment he stood up. "Lieutenant, if you don't have anything more, then I won't keep you."

Frank raised both eyebrows and slowly got to his feet. Mark opened his mouth but Gault cut him off. "Mr. McCormick. I'm not going to make you any promises. But I will say that I don't have any plans to . . . subvert you." Mark stood warily and was surprised when Gault offered him a hand. "Good luck, boy. You're going to need it."

000000000000000

Frank was fairly quiet on the way back. He seemed to be almost studying Mark, which was a little disconcerting. When Mark pulled into the parking lot at the station, he looked over at Frank and said simply, "Thank you."

Frank crawled out of the car and given him a bemused smile. "Oh, it was worth it."

Mark snorted, "Yeah, hanging around Judge Gault is always so much fun."

Frank chuckled. "Nah, but hanging around you is." He was walking away before Mark could figure out what to say to that.

0000000000000000

It was late afternoon when he got home. To his surprise the yellow police tape was down. He left the Coyote in the driveway and headed over to take a look. The hole was still there. Mark wondered if it was still a crime scene.

"Where you been all day?" Mark jumped. For a big guy in cowboy boots, the judge could be pretty stealthy.

"What happened to the tape?"

"I took it down. Where you been?"

"Why'd you take it down?"

"Because I didn't like it. Now where you been?"

"Aren't you going to get in trouble? It's a crime scene."

"No one's really said it's a crime. And anyway, we're the only ones here, it's not like we're going to mess it up. Somehow I think the chances of you deciding to pick up a shovel and fill in a hole are pretty slim. Is there a particular reason you're not telling me where you've been?"

Mark sighed and turned away from the hole. "Let's talk over some food. I'm starving."

"You didn't eat lunch?"

Mark thought back to the cookies. "Lions and tigers and bears."

00000000000000

They ate in the kitchen again. Mark sat at the table with a sandwich the size of his head. Hardcastle grabbed a soda and sat opposite him. "Ready to spill?"

Mark chewed and swallowed. "I went to see Judge Gault."

"You did _what_? Of all the stupid. . . Are you _trying_ to make him throw you back in prison?"

"Hey," Mark snapped. "I had to know, okay? We can't just spend all our time pussyfooting around so we don't offend him."

"Oh, great. Wonderful. When should I expect a call from Dalem?"

"Well," Mark said slowly since it was hard for him to believe, "I don't think you need to."

Hardcastle scowled suspiciously at him. "What do you mean I won't need to? What did you say to him?"

Mark looked down at his plate. "I don't really remember exactly what I said."

More curious than annoyed now, Hardcastle replied, "You must have said something."

"Well, sure. I said a lot. But my mouth just took off running, you know? The upshot is I don't think he's going to do anything."

"You don't think," Hardcastle repeated.

"I think I know. He won't."

Hardcastle propped his chin on his hand and watched as Mark picked up the sandwich. He'd had maybe a dozen guesses as to where McCormick might have spent his day. None of those guesses had included a visit to Gault. The kid had guts, he'd give him that. Either that or he was incredibly stupid. A smile played on his lips. McCormick only made these grand, stupid gestures when he was determined to right a wrong. It was just the kid's bad luck that those gestures were sometimes illegal. But this one wasn't illegal. Just incredibly hazardous. And yeah, he smiled, kind of stupid.

Head still bent towards his plate, Mark raised his eyes to Hardcastle. "So we can keep going?"

Hardcastle shook his head. Who was he to spit on a grand gesture? "It's your neck. You want to keep going, we'll keep going."

McCormick gave him a huge smile and bit into his sandwich. "Great. So what next?"

0000000000000000000

'What next' turned out to be a return to D.D.'s list. Hardcastle scanned down the long-ago names.

"Okay, some of these people I don't know how we're going to find. A couple I do know are still around. So we'll start with the easy ones. Dottie Martin, Jeff Creed, and Frank and Betty Coyne are still around."

"Frank and Betty Coyne," Mark said decidedly.

Hardcastle looked up from the list. "Any particular reason?"

"I just want to see dreamy Frank Coyne for myself."

"Something you're not telling me, McCormick?"

Mark grinned at him. "Hey, he could do worse." Then he shook his head. "Nah, it's just he had money and good looks and he scored Betty Preminger. If life is at all fair he'll be a bald, dumpy old man."

"He's my age, McCormick."

Mark nodded serenely.

"Get in the car, wise guy."

Franklin and Betty Coyne lived in yet another one of those mansions that Mark was getting strangely used to. Unlike Gulls' Way, it didn't sprawl out so much as rise up. It was terraced into a hill so it was a little difficult to count stories, but there were at least three. The lawn was small, but Mark noted with interest that there was a four-car garage. A must for any couple.

A short, rounded, older woman answered the door. Hardcastle stepped forward and offered his best cocktail party smile. "Hi. Milt Hardcastle. I was wondering if I could speak to Frank or Betty."

The woman's eyes widened. There were footsteps behind her and she looked over her shoulder. A second woman approached from somewhere behind and to the left of her. "Can I help you?" The second woman asked. Mark stared at her in appreciation as she appeared. He remembered Betty Preminger from the photos. If this was her, she had aged well. She was actually better looking now. She was about five seven, with a medium build and huge brown eyes. Frank Coyne really did have all the luck.

Hardcastle's smile became more sincere. "Betty."

She stared blankly at him for a moment before smiling and opening her arms. Hardcastle gave her a brief hug. "Milt. I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize you. I never used to see you without a suit and tie." Mark gave Hardcastle a startled look and then filed that away.

"I should have called first."

"No, no, not at all." She stepped back and waved them in. "Please come in."

"Thanks. Oh, this is Mark McCormick. Friend of mine." Mark entered behind Hardcastle and gave her a dimpled smile and a nod. He had never been able to figure out why he was in some cases introduced as a friend and in some cases introduced as an employee. It seemed to have no bearing on how Hardcastle felt about him at any particular moment. For all Mark knew it depended on what the judge had for breakfast.

Betty Coyne nodded back at Mark and gestured at the woman who had answered the door and who had now retreated to the side. "My friend, Mrs. Kovack. She helps me out here."

Mrs. Kovack was shyly backing away. "I should finish in the den."

Betty nodded. "Of course. I'll join you later." Mrs. Kovack nodded and then disappeared through one of the doors.

"Are we interrupting something?" Mark asked.

Betty Coyne looked at him, taking his measure. She smiled gently and shook her head. "Nothing urgent. She's helping me organize some materials for a book I'm working on."

"You write books?" Mark said, impressed.

Betty smiled at him. "Nothing you'd find on a best seller list, I'm afraid. I teach classes on nineteenth century literature. I'm working on something about the precursor to Bloomsbury. The influences on Woolf and Strachey and all that."

Mark nodded and hastily looked away. He hated feeling dumb. Hardcastle noticed the exchange and turned the conversation. "You sound like you're keeping busy."

She smiled and led them into the sunken living room. "I tried retirement once but it didn't take," she joked lightly.

"Yeah," the judge agreed. "You gotta keep busy." Mark rolled his eyes at that comment.

Betty gestured them to a sofa. The whole living room was like the inside of an igloo. Everything was white, sofas, arm chairs, and carpet. Expensive looking vases stood on all the end tables. This was a living room for perfect people. Mark sat gingerly down on one of the white sofas and noticed that the judge too looked like he was concentrating pretty hard on the act of sitting down.

Hardcastle sat at the edge of the frou-frou sofa. He hated homes like this. They gave you the feeling that you weren't good enough for the house. This was a bit how he felt when he first started hanging around Nancy. Like if he put a foot wrong, he'd be tossed out on his ear. He itched to leave. "I don't want to waste your time. I just wanted to ask you about some stuff that happened a long time ago."

Betty sat on a matching sofa at right angles to the one Mark and Hardcastle shared. She tilted her head at them. "Some stuff?" She repeated.

"Yeah," Hardcastle answered. "You read the papers? About the skeleton?"

Betty's expression didn't change. "I'm afraid I've been a bit busy."

"Yeah. I can understand that." Hardcastle started to lean back and then thought the better of it. He jerked a thumb at Mark. "McCormick here found a skeleton buried at the house a few days ago. Now it appears that it dates back from the early '40's. We're trying to figure out who it was and how she came to be there."

"She?"

"That much we do know. Woman. About five three. You got any guesses?"

Betty Coyne's eyes grew unfocused as she sat in silence for a moment. Then she shook her head briskly as if rousing herself. "How extraordinary. Honestly though, I couldn't guess who it was. So many people were in and out of Gulls' Way."

"Any names you recall? Any at all?" The judge pressed.

"None you wouldn't know yourself." She paused. "Are the police involved in this?"

Hardcastle shrugged noncommittally. "Yeah, more or less. But it's not exactly a top priority."

"Would your husband know anything?" Mark interjected.

Betty blinked at him. "I can't imagine he would know anything more than I do. We were usually there together, you know. At Gulls' Way."

"Oh," Mark said and contracted his brows.

Betty watched him for a moment before transferring her attention to the judge. "Milt, forgive me, but isn't this a matter for the police? Why are you getting involved?"

"In order for evil to triumph, it is only necessary for good men to do nothing," Mark muttered to himself. Hardcastle shot him a surprised look and Mark shrugged and looked away. He hadn't told Hardcastle about Frank going with him to see Gault. That Frank had been that nice to him. That was kind of . . . private.

Hardcastle looked back at Betty. "Skeleton was found at Gulls' Way. I kind of feel that makes it my problem, too."

Betty nodded. "Well, I wish you well. I'm sorry I'm not more helpful."

Hardcastle stood up. "I'm sorry for butting in on you this way. But listen, when Frank gets home, would you mind running this by him? If he can think of anything, tell him to give me a call."

Betty stood and smoothed out her pants suit. "Of course I will."

The goodbyes took forever. After being ushered outside, Mark waited near the Coyote as the judge and Betty Coyne continued with their pleasantries while they edged away from each other. Finally, the door closed and Hardcastle joined him at the car. "That was the most elegant bum's rush I've ever had," Mark said.

"Well, if she didn't know, then she didn't know. She's busy with her book."

"Yeah. Bloomsbury."

"Bloomsbury," Hardcastle repeated and started the ungraceful process of climbing in the damn car. "Hey, where'd you hear Edmund Burke, kiddo?"

Mark squinted across the car at the judge. "Who with the what now?"

"Edmund Burke. Evil triumphing and all that," Hardcastle paused and considered. "I think it was Burke."

Mark shrugged. "Oh that. Just some guy I heard."

"Huh."

"So who's next?"

"Dottie Martin. She's got a condo nearby."

"Dottie Martin it is," Mark said and slid easily into the driver's seat.

When the judge said that Dottie Martin had a condo nearby, Mark hadn't realized that he meant that she owned the whole damn building. It wasn't a large condominium, but still. Ms. Martin herself was one of those older ladies who thought it was somehow chic to be able to fit into the same pants she wore in high school. She was so skinny she was painful to look at. But on the plus side, her furniture was functional and she offered them sodas and cookies though she ate nothing herself. She also managed to cross a name off their list by telling them that Jeff Creed had died two years ago. "A heart attack," she said and looked at the judge significantly. Hardcastle shrugged and popped another Keebler Elf in his mouth. Dottie had confirmed that Grace Jendrowski was about five three but could remember little else about her.

Back in the car, Hardcastle unfolded the list and frowned at the names. "Got time for one more today. Missy Freeman or Mimi Reynolds."

"Missy," Mark said definitely.

"Why her?"

"Missy sounds okay, but Mimi was mean to D.D." Mark stopped and replayed his words. "I can't believe I just said that."

Hardcastle snorted. "Yeah, welcome to Malibu, Skippy."

000000000000000000

That evening Mark brought a photo album to the living room. He thumbed through it and picked out a picture of Missy Freeman, now Missy Pomfrey. "Funny, she doesn't look like an air-head."

Behind him, Hardcastle grunted.

"You might've warned me you know."

"How would I know? I hadn't seen her since Nancy's funeral."

Mark stared at the photo. Missy Pomfrey, oldest living valley girl. She was a widow now, Mr. Pomfrey having died in self-defense. There was no other explanation. If Mark had been married to her, he'd have eaten enough Keebler Elves to stop an elephant's heart. Much to the judge's amusement, she'd latched on to Mark the moment they walked in her door. "Your accent is adorable! New Jersey? I do love Bruce Springsteen, don't you? His lyrics are so. . . _real_, don't you think?" After much bobbing and weaving, they finally got her to say that she vaguely remembered two "rather short" women who used to hang about and yes, their names could have been Grace and Eleanor, but really, she wasn't one to live in the past so she couldn't say for _sure_ and let's talk about you now. Mark shuddered. "You could have at least figured out a way to get us out of there quicker."

"Look on the bright side, kiddo. You get tired of me, she'll probably adopt you."

"I don't think she wanted to adopt me, Judge."

"Hmm. Yeah. And if she did, what she had planned for you would probably be illegal."

Mark flinched. "Okay, change the subject time."

Hardcastle sat heavily in one of the arm chairs. "Wish we had a subject to change to. We're not doing so good here, McCormick."

Mark paced the room, still holding the photo album. "Yeah, I know. Do we know anything now that we didn't know this morning? Aside from the fact that your old friends have more money than a couple of small countries."

"They're not really _my_ old friends."

Mark stopped walking and looked down at Hardcastle, who was leaning forward in the chair with his arms on his knees. Mark closed the album, dropped it on the coffee table and sank down on the sofa. "Can I ask you something," he said.

Hardcastle shrugged. "You can _ask_."

"Yeah, okay." Mark looked away from Hardcastle to give him some space. "D.D. kind of implied that when you first came here, you weren't really in with the in-crowd."

For a long moment, Hardcastle said nothing and Mark began to think he wouldn't answer. Finally though, he spoke. "When Nancy first brought me here, I thought it was like something out of a movie, you know? Like 'Philadelphia Story' or something."

Mark risked a glance at him. Hardcastle looked contemplative but not as if he minded talking about this. "And you were Jimmy Stewart?" he asked.

The corner of Hardcastle's mouth turned up. "I guess. I kept wondering what the hell I thought I was doing here. Both the place and the people. I wasn't used to any of this. I felt kind of like some stray mutt who'd wandered into a dog show."

Mark nodded, afraid to interrupt. A stray mutt. Or some cast-off screw up. Forty years had never sounded so close.

"Nobody was nasty to me or anything. But I wasn't exactly let in, if you know what I mean."

"Nancy?" Mark said softly.

Hardcastle smiled fondly. "She liked me."

And, even after all this time, Mark could hear the awe in the judge's voice. Mark thought back to the pictures that he had seen of Nancy. In his mind they all melded into one image of a tall woman with a wide, smiling mouth and windblown hair. And always he saw her standing among the roses. In the judge's voice, Mark could hear the surprise and joy that out of everyone else she could have had, Nancy had reached out and picked him. Mark closed his eyes briefly and thought, "_thank you_."

"When did you feel that you did belong?" Mark asked a little wistfully.

Hardcastle tilted his head, suspecting that McCormick was probably asking more than the kid realized he was asking. "It didn't happen all at once. And it wasn't any change in them. I guess it was a change in me. It just finally started sinking in that if someone like Nancy thought I was something, then maybe I was." He focused his attention on Mark and said deliberately, "Sometimes you just got to trust someone else's opinion of you until you find your own footing."

Mark nodded, thinking about Nancy. "She sounds like she was a real special lady."

There was a pause and then Hardcastle said, "Well, yeah. She was." There was a touch of exasperation in his voice.

Mark looked at him, puzzled. The judge was wearing a familiar look. The one that said, 'I don't know whether to pat you on the shoulder or smack you on the head.' Mark cocked his head at him and then shrugged. "So, do we know anything about Mimi Reynolds? You remember much about her?"

Hardcastle sighed and settled back in his chair. "Yeah, a bit. Pretty. Red-haired. Heard she married but I can't remember her married name."

"So what's she like?"

"I didn't have all that much to do with her," the judge said evasively.

"She was a snob," Mark said with certainty.

Hardcastle gave him a rueful smile. "Yeah, a bit."

"And mean to D.D.," Mark said, as if making a list.

"I don't know as she was mean, exactly. It's just that D.D. was a bit younger, so Mimi sometimes didn't appreciate her hanging around all the time."

"Mean," Mark confirmed.

"Okay, a little maybe."

"How about you?"

"Hey, I was nice to D.D. And she really could be a pain in the rear."

"Well, know _that_," Mark replied. "I meant how was Mimi to you?"

Hardcastle glanced over at him and his eyes crinkled in a smile. "About the same as she was to D.D."

"Don't tell me _you_ were a pain in the rear," Mark said, feigning shock.

"Very funny."

"Thanks," Mark said modestly. "I thought so."

00000000000000

When he entered the main house the next morning, Mark discovered that the judge had already made a phone call to someone within his mysterious and pervasive information network. Mimi Reynolds was now Mimi Cantiledes. She lived in Santa Monica. Mark pulled out a map while Hardcastle recited the address. "That's it?" Mark asked. "Just a regular street address?"

"What did you expect?"

"With this crowd? I don't know. Something like Casa de Hobnob. Or Rancho Trust Fund."

Hardcastle tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile but then said seriously. "Look, don't go in there with an attitude, okay? She doesn't have to talk to us."

"Yeah, yeah. Make nice to the mean old lady."

"She's not mean," Hardcastle said, exasperated. "I don't believe you. You share an address with Charles Manson, but an old society dame has you up in arms."

Mark frowned down at the map. Good one, judge. He almost fired back a comment but forced himself to bite it back. He really was overreacting to this. He'd cast Mimi Reynolds as some rich snob who probably referred to guys like him as the little people. And really, the only thing he knew about her was that forty years ago she made one snippy comment to D.D. and was maybe a little cool to Hardcase. Big deal. His own rap sheet would put her in the shade.

Hardcastle waited, surprised that he didn't get any lip back for his last comment. When Mark finally looked up from the map, he looked a little sheepish. "Sorry," Mark said. "Guess I'm kind of going overboard here."

"Maybe not overboard, but you're definitely taking on water."

"Sorry." He looked away and then offered, "It's just I kind of get a little sick of people like that, you know? Like gatekeepers."

Gatekeepers, Hardcastle thought. Yeah, those people who decided whether or not you were worthy of acceptance. He'd never actually seen any of Nancy's crowd close the gate to anyone, so to speak, but that didn't mean they didn't post sentries. "Like what gives them the right to judge you?"

Mark flashed him a brief smile. "Coming from you. . ." Then he dropped it. "Yeah, I guess. You get kind of tired of people saying you're not good enough, you know?" He thought for a moment. "I guess you do kind of know. But you had Nancy, right?"

Hardcastle shrugged and said with deceptive lightness, "So? You got me, right?"

Hardcastle watched as McCormick looked at him doubtfully. He kept a nonchalant look on his own face. Mark looked back down at the map. "I found her. You about ready to go?"

Hardcastle sighed and let the moment go. "Yeah, just let me grab a better shirt." He turned to head upstairs when he caught sight of the security controls. The light indicating the front gate had just come on.

Mark noticed it too and asked, "Expecting anyone?"

The judge shook his head and moved towards the front door. "Not me." He opened the door to see a deep green jaguar pull into the drive. Mark whistled appreciatively over his shoulder. The car came to a smooth stop in front of them and after a moment a woman in an expensive looking suit and a large sun hat emerged from the driver's side. "Well, well," the judge murmured. "We just saved a trip to Santa Monica."

00000000000000

Mimi Reynolds Cantiledes decorated one of the pool chairs with her presence. Mark had been surprised when she suggested they talk outside. He figured she'd have some sort of complexion-based objection to the great outdoors. But here she was, clad in a suit that matched her car's paint job and wearing a broad brimmed hat that prettily framed her face. She hadn't been that much of a looker in her old photos, but she sure knew how to take care of herself. She was quite tall. In heels, she was near Mark's height. She was slim with iron gray hair pulled into a chignon. Mark thought of turning her loose in the garden. Her sharp dark eyes could wither weeds at twenty paces. When she spoke, though, her voice was polite. "I'd forgotten how beautiful this place was."

Hardcastle sat next to her with his arms resting on the small round table in front of them. Mark was across from her, just to the left of her line of sight. Three glasses of lemonade sat on the table. "It's been awhile," the judge said.

"That it has." Her eyes moved to Mark and he was quickly and efficiently appraised. She looked away from him, towards the back yard. "You don't entertain much, do you? Not like before."

"I do some," and Mark could tell that the judge was making an effort not to become defensive.

"Nancy loved parties," she continued as if the judge hadn't spoken. "So many people. I still see some of them at various events."

"Nancy loved _people_," Hardcastle corrected her pointedly.

Mimi - and Mark was so used to thinking of her as Mimi, that he couldn't think of her as Mrs. Cantiledes - focused her attention on Hardcastle. "Yes, there were always a lot of people in her wake. I suppose you know I'm here because I heard you found one of them."

"McCormick here actually found her."

Mimi's eyes skirted back to Mark. "Ah, yes. I'd heard someone else was there."

Mark flushed, stung a bit at being so easily dismissed. "Are you talking to me or to the judge?"

Mimi raised one eyebrow as if he had done something amusing. "I beg your pardon," she said politely. "How did you find her, Mr. McCormick?"

"I was digging a hole and there she was."

"Digging a hole?"

"Planting a rose bush."

"I see."

Mark could see that with his last remark, things clicked into place for her. He was the gardener. Of course.

"That must have been pretty terrible," Mimi said sympathetically.

"I've seen worse," Mark said flatly. Hardcastle gave him a quick 'be nice' glare and he ducked his head.

Mimi just murmured, "Oh dear," and turned back to the judge. "Is it Grace Jendrowski? Can they tell?"

Hardcastle straightened. Interesting that she knew that much. "They can tell it's a young female about five foot three."

"They can't tell for sure? Don't they look at teeth?"

"They have her teeth, they just don't have any dental records to match them to."

"Oh," Mimi looked away again, out towards the back yard. She started fiddling with one of her bracelets. "What will they do with the . . . remains?"

The judge watched her carefully. "Re-bury them. In an actual cemetery."

Mimi nodded, still looking away. "Milt, do you think someone killed her?" Mark frowned at her. She sounded . . . off. Like she was more interested in what Hardcastle thought than what actually happened.

"I don't know," the judge said bluntly. "Could have been an accident, but then why hide the body?"

"Hide," she said softly. She looked back at the judge and added. "I'll be blunt, Milt. I think I speak for many of us. We wouldn't relish being questioned by the police about this."

"No one relishes being questioned by the police," Mark retorted.

She didn't even look at him. She stayed focused on Hardcastle. The judge shrugged off her words. "We got to identify her. We got to find out how she died."

Mimi worried her bottom lip. "If it will help clear this all up, then I think," she said slowly, "that I can help a bit." The judge straightened and made a 'go on' gesture with his hand. Mimi worried her lip some more and then said. "My guess is that it's Grace. It's the right time, right height. And Grace dropped out of sight around that time. If you remember, she wasn't at your wedding. I know Nancy would have invited her."

Mark leaned forward. "Did you ever see Grace again?"

Mimi looked at him quickly, "No."

Hardcastle had a distant look on his face. "I can't remember all the guests."

Mimi smiled at him. "It was a big wedding. The Freemans, the Martins, the Bennetts, oh, everybody." Her tone became less dreamy. "Most of them are still around, Milt. You should attend more events. Get out more."

Hardcastle lowered his eyes and shook his head slightly. "I appreciate the thought, but they're not really my crowd."

Mimi's eyes flicked towards Mark again. "I see. I guessed as much, but I am disappointed." She stood up and smoothed her skirt. Mark hastily got to his feet. Hardcastle stood more slowly. "I hope I've been some help. I know there's only so much you can do, but I would really prefer to avoid being dragged into anything."

"Of course," Hardcastle said automatically. "I'll show you out."

Mark watched as they headed into the house, the shortest way back to her car. He looked at the pool, sparkling in the sun. He felt a sudden urge to dive in, have it christen him. I'm not the gardener. I'm Mark McCormick. I live here now. He looked around. The pool had been resurfaced, but it was as old as the main house. He'd seen it in some of the old photos. He tried to picture how it was forty years ago. Confident men in sports shirts. Women with bright lipstick and expensive shoes. And what would they be talking about? The war. Business. Maybe art. The nineteenth century influence on the Bloomsbury group. Stuff he didn't know about.

He looked back at the house. Hardcastle hadn't reappeared yet. Mark picked up his glass of lemonade. There was still a little left. He wandered away from the pool and headed to the back yard. With his glass in his right hand, he walked over to a large tree. It was a great tree. It grew out and out instead of up and up. "Hi tree," he said. "Thirsty?" He tipped the glass and poured lemonade on to the roots. The dry ground quickly sucked it up. This was the tree that Nancy and D.D. had sat under. Nancy with the wide mouth and the roses. "You don't mind, do you?" he said quietly, "I'm Mark McCormick and I live here."

Mark stared at the bark for a moment before turning away. He didn't feel like going inside. It was quiet and warm and the distant hum of honey bees lulled him. He looked over at the gatehouse. The hole was still there, like a gash in the land. Mark frowned at it, suddenly unable to tolerate its presence anymore. He headed quickly for the gardening shed and emerged a moment later with a shovel. The rose bush still lay propped against the gatehouse, wilted but still hanging on. He touched a leaf. It needed water pretty desperately. "Sorry," he told it. Then he went to work filling in most of the hole. If he was disturbing evidence, they could just arrest him.

He'd filled in most of it. In fact, he'd done too much and would have to dig a little more to plant the rose bush. He was standing back trying to figure out the best placement for the bush when the judge came up behind him. "You realize you're destroying evidence."

"From the man who took the tape down." Mark gestured at the rose bush. "It'll die if I don't plant it."

"If I'd known a visit from Mimi would get you this ambitious, I'd have invited her long ago."

Mark snorted. "Don't do me any favors."

Hardcastle stood back and watched as Mark attacked the ground with the shovel. "Have you done any thinking yet or are you still just reacting?"

Mark stopped in mid-shovel and opened his mouth to argue. Then he closed it again. He straightened up and leaned against the shovel. "Okay," he said ruefully. "Done with letting it get to me."

"It's about time. Get it through your head that it doesn't matter what anyone thinks."

Unconvinced, Mark nevertheless grinned. "Can I quote you on that?"

"As long as you remember that I'm not just anyone."

Mark laughed. "Okay, kemosabe. Now what was I supposed to be thinking about?"

"How about something like, 'how did Mimi Reynolds find out about all this?'"

Mark frowned. "It was on the news."

"Uh-uh. Try again. Mimi knew that _we_ were looking into it. That wasn't on the news."

Mark thought. Hardcastle could almost see the hamster wheel turning. "Not from Frank. He's not really investigating."

"Nope," Hardcastle agreed.

"They're talking to each other."

"That'd be my guess. Question is why. Mimi was over here pretty darn quick. Must have been some kind of emergency meeting."

"Betty Coyne," Mark said. Hardcastle nodded slowly in agreement. "It had to be," Mark added. "I can't see the other two talking to her."

"Right. So we go back to Betty Coyne and ask her what the problem is."

"Something else," Mark said abruptly. Hardcastle looked at him questioningly. "Mimi knew it was Grace," Mark said. "That it wasn't Eleanor. Why was she so sure?"

Hardcastle blinked and thought about that one himself. "She didn't see Grace later on, she said."

"So she did see Eleanor. So maybe she knows where Eleanor is now. After all, she still sees the old gang at 'events'."

Hardcastle nodded and his expression turned distant. He was staring at Mark without really seeing him. "Damn," he said suddenly. "We're idiots." He gave Mark a gentle slap on the chest. "Come on, let's go."

"All right, but let me get this bush planted. It's going to die on me."

"McCormick," Hardcastle said in exasperation.

"I want this done," Mark said firmly.

Hardcastle looked at the bush and then down at the hole. He wasn't an idiot. He knew that for some reason planting this bush was important to McCormick. "All right, all right. Just hurry up."

Mark struck the ground deeply with the shovel. They both heard the noise. "What did you hit now?" Hardcastle asked.

"Metal. I bet I know." Mark kneeled down and brushed the dirt away. "Yup. You know, when they redid the sprinkler system, did anyone give any thought to removing the old system? Every time I dig I hit old pipe." Mark buried his fingers in the dirt and yanked. As usual when this happened, the pipe came up in sections. Mark pulled a foot long section out. An old, rusted sprinkler head was still attached. He lifted it up. "The plastic may break more but at least it doesn't rust."

Hardcastle took it from him. "They made things solid back then." He touched the sprinkler head. Rust flaked off in his hand. The he stopped and stared at it. "McCormick."

Mark had turned to pick up the rose bush. "What?"

When the judge didn't answer, Mark looked back at him. Hardcastle was holding the sprinkler head up. Mark looked at him questioningly. He looked at the sprinkler head. Then he dropped the rose bush.

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"We were thinking maybe it was murder, you know," Hardcastle said. He sounded aggrieved, which was pretty understandable given how much running around they'd been doing in the past few days. Once again Mark sat next to him on one of the virginal sofas in Betty Coyne's living room. This time they faced the complete set of Coynes. Franklin Coyne sat facing them. Although he was currently looking a bit grim, there was no denying he was a handsome man. Which just goes to show, Mark thought, that life really wasn't fair. You just shouldn't have a gazillion dollars, a smart wife, and still look like a Grecian Formula ad.

Of course, life for Franklin Coyne was not without its little problems. Like the one currently huddled miserably on a white sofa, being comforted by Betty Coyne.

Hardcastle spoke to the miserable woman. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. I didn't know your married name."

Eleanor Kovack shrugged indifferently. "There was no reason for you to remember me. And I've been widowed for years."

"Still, I should have known it was you," Hardcastle said. He sounded annoyed with himself. Eleanor shook her head wordlessly and Betty patted her shoulder.

"You all knew it was Grace. You knew she was buried there all this time." Mark wasn't asking a question and they didn't treat it as one. No one answered him. There was a long silence. Eleanor remained huddled. Betty remained consoling. Franklin Coyne looked as if nine lanes of traffic were merging in his head.

Hardcastle blew out his breath in exasperation. He fished in his jacket pocket and drew out a small bundle rolled up in rag. He unwound the rag and plopped it on the gleaming coffee table. The filthy, rusted sprinkler head sat there like a stain in their perfect living room. "Did you see it happen?" he asked Eleanor.

Eleanor stared at the sprinkler head. Her eyes welled. "How did you know?"

"I should have guessed sooner. McCormick is always complaining about the old pipe. He dug this up earlier today." Hardcastle picked it up and ran a finger over the edge of the head. "Sharp and rounded. It matches the skull wound the M.E. found."

Both Eleanor and Betty winced at his bluntness, but then Eleanor seemed to grab a hold of herself. "I was there." She looked up steadily at Hardcastle. "You weren't there that night. It was no special party. People just came and went." A ghost of a smile appeared on her face. "We must have been awful pests." Betty patted her shoulder again and Eleanor reached up to grasp and hold her hand. "Grace and I were up in one of the elms, looking at the ocean." She turned slightly to Mark. "You can see better from higher up. Over the sea wall." Mark nodded. He'd discovered that himself. Eleanor's expression grew distant. "No one knew we were up there." She hesitated.

When the pause became lengthy, Betty took over. "I was there with Mimi and Nancy. We were just walking in the yard." Her gaze flicked to Betty and then back to the judge. "Mimi, well, she said something."

"Mimi being Mimi," Franklin said blandly.

Eleanor shook her head. "No. Grace overreacted. We both over reacted."

Mark looked curiously from Eleanor to Franklin and back again. "What did she say?"

Eleanor shrugged. "It was silly to get so worked up. She just said that it was nice for it to be just the three of them for once. Betty, Nancy, and Mimi had all grown up together. I'm sure that's all she meant. But, well, we, especially Gracie, took it the wrong way."

"Because it came from Mimi," Mark said with sudden insight.

"Well, yes. She could be a little . . . unwelcoming."

Betty Coyne gave an unladylike snort. "That's one way of putting it."

Eleanor squeezed Betty's hand. "The three of them went over to the pool. Grace was so angry. So hurt." She let go of Betty's hand and held it out in a pleading gesture to Hardcastle. "You have to understand. Nancy and her family, they made us feel so welcome. Not like they were too good for us. Nancy asked me to teach her some Polish words. D.D. kept telling Grace that she should be a movie star." Her eyes welled up again. "Where we were from, there was no ocean, no gardens or lawns. Just slum. You don't know what it meant to be able to lie on the grass or to climb a tree. Someplace where people liked you. Welcomed you."

Mark swallowed and Eleanor continued. "When Grace overheard Mimi, she took it as a rejection." In a softer voice, she added, "I suppose I did too." She paused again and then continued. "I wanted to go and hide, I suppose. Grace wanted to go after Mimi."

"You don't need to go through this again," Betty said.

Eleanor shook her head. "No. It's his home now. He should know." She stared straight at Hardcastle. "I climbed down as usual. Grace, she was not as careful."

"She fell?" Mark asked.

"She was angry. She tried to jump down. But it was too high. She fell when she landed."

The judge leaned forward and picked up the old sprinkler head. He held it up to Eleanor. She nodded in acknowledgment. "They were all over the old lawn. She hit hard. She only lived a few minutes."

Mark closed his eyes and tried to imagine. To have your only sister with you one minute, watching the waves, and then dead the next. "You didn't tell anyone?" he asked gently.

Eleanor shook her head. It was Franklin who spoke up. "Try to imagine, Mr. McCormick. She had been in the country for only a short time at that point. She didn't know if she'd be blamed or deported."

"I should have said something," Eleanor added. "I know now. I didn't know then. I just grabbed a shovel from one of the sheds and started digging until I couldn't dig anymore. I didn't do a very good job though. I was sure someone would find her before now."

"The gatehouse was on top of her," the judge said. Eleanor and Betty again cringed at his bluntness. Franklin looked mildly interested but didn't say anything.

Mark looked around the room. For a long moment no one said anything. Their expressions ranged from thoughtful to morose. "Um, so now what? Case closed?"

Hardcastle scowled at him but Franklin leaned forward. "I would like to know that, too. Eleanor won't be charged with anything, will she? She's been a good friend to Betty and me. She didn't do anything wrong."

Hardcastle rubbed his lower lip. "She didn't report the death. And she buried a body on private property."

"Oh, come on, Milt." Betty said.

"It was forty years ago, Judge," Mark added. "Isn't there some sort of statute of limitations on that?"

"Been reading my law books again, kiddo?" He held up a hand. "Look, this is an open case with the police. We got to tell them what happened at least. I honestly can't see a prosecutor filing any charges on something like this. But I'll tell you what, if it does get that far, I'll talk to some people and see what we can work out."

"I thought you didn't pull strings," Mark said under his breath. Hardcastle gave him an unobtrusive kick.

Betty smiled at him in relief. "That's wonderful, Milt."

Franklin nodded in agreement. "Very good of you, Milt." He looked over at Betty. "You know, if Milt can't swing it, we can always speak with Rick. After all, he's still on the bench."

Betty's face brightened. "Rick! Of course. I'm sure he could do it."

"Trump," Mark whispered.

Hardcastle hissed back, "Shut up McCormick."

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The newly planted rose bush was waiting for them when they got home. Mark immediately walked over to it and the judge followed him. Mark squatted down and touched a finger to the soil. "I'll need to water it again in the morning."

Hardcastle just hummed in agreement. He looked around. Not all of the roses were blooming just now, but a good many were. The sun was beginning to set and the trees were casting shadows across the lawn. He wondered which tree Grace had fallen from. Probably it had been cut down when the gatehouse was built. "Eleanor never said anything," Hardcastle said. "After all this time she couldn't have thought she'd be deported or thrown in prison."

Mark was still squatting down. He looked up at Hardcastle and followed his gaze, taking in the roses and the trees. He was too low to see over the sea wall. "I don't think she did." He said quietly.

Hardcastle looked down at him in surprise. He hadn't really expected an answer. Mark had dropped his gaze and was now running his fingers through the soil. "You don't think she was afraid?"

Mark didn't look up. He shook his head still playing with the soil. "I think," he said slowly, "that Eleanor just liked the idea of Grace being here. They liked it here. I think Eleanor thought that Grace wouldn't want to leave."

Hardcastle opened his mouth and then shut it again. Forty years ago he'd first come here. He remembered it well. The lively, dark haired girl he'd kept running into had invited him to her home. Gulls' Way. He had thought that was the name of her apartment building. When he arrived at the main gate, he kept checking the address. He almost chickened out. But then the gates had opened and he was met with sunshine and ocean and flowers. With a big, bluff father who slapped him on the shoulder and teased him about not being a marine. With a slightly overwhelmed mother who could never buy enough ice cream. With a pesky, tag-along kid sister who kept asking if he'd ever arrested any movie stars. And, above all, with a laughing, loving woman who treated him like he belonged.

Hardcastle looked down at Mark who was nervously plucking at imaginary weeds surrounding his very own rose bush. He gently nudged him with his knee. "Let's eat outside tonight."

Mark's fingers stilled. He squinted up at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll grill. You did it last time."

Mark was looking at him like he was waiting for the catch. "I'll grill," Hardcastle repeated. "You pick the spot."

"I get to pick the spot?"

Hardcastle nudged him again. "Sure. Why not? You live here, too."

Mark face stilled. He stood slowly up. Hardcastle's words echoed in his ears. His eyes fell on the lemonade tree. "Okay," he said slowly. "I know just the spot."

Hardcastle nodded. He gave Mark one long searching look and then reached out, gripped his shoulder tightly and gave it an affectionate shake. Then he turned and headed to the main house. Mark watched him for a moment. He touched a hand to his shoulder and then let it drop. Then he walked over to the tree and touched it. "Me again. Mark McCormick. I live here. I want to stay."

End


End file.
